Southern  Branch 
of  the 


University  of  California 


Los  Angeles 


Form  L-l 


B3 


This  h     1r  is  ^UE  on  the 


SOUTHERN  BRANCH, 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA, 

LIBRARY, 

ANGELES,  CALIF. 


MEMOIRS  OF  THE  MEMORABLE 


C'imera  1'ortrnit] 


Walter  Stoiifman,  F.R.P.S. 


SIR    JAMES    DENHAM 


[t'ronli*{tiree. 


MEMOIRS  OF  THE 
::    MEMORABLE    •• 


BY 

SIR  JAMES  DENHAM 


WITH    17   ILLUSTRATIONS 


NEW  XgJP    YORK 
GEORGE   H.    DORAN   COMPANY 

60330 


Printed  in  Great  Britain 


IDA 


/ 
V  II.-1 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I. — RECOLLECTIONS  OF  ROME i 

THE  ROME  OF  THE  EIGHTIES      .         .         .         .  10 

III. — A  THING  OF  BEAUTY  is  A  JOY  FOR  EVER  .         .  25 
IV. — VISIONS  OF  BEAUTY   ....                 -29 

,     V. — THE  LONDON  OF  YESTERDAY      ....  37 v 
•    VI. — QUEEN  VICTORIA'S  MASTER  OF  THE  CEREMONIES, 

GENERAL  SIR  FRANCIS  SEYMOUR,  BART.,  K.C.B  .  53 

»  VII. — QUEEN  VICTORIA'S  WOMENKIND  ....  75 

VIII. — SOVEREIGNTY  AND  ITS  ENTOURAGE      ...  87 
\jlfi. — THE  PASSING  SHADOW  AND  THE  LINGERING  LIGHT. 

/           BEACONSFIELD  AND  SALISBURY         ...  97 
V'X. — LORD  SALISBURY'S  FOREIGN  POLICY     .         .         .112 

I/XL— GLADSTONE 125  <• 

XII. — CONCERNING  SPORTS  AND  SPORTING     .         .         .  145 

XIII. — BEYOND  THE  FOOTLIGHTS 172 

XIV. — THE  GRACIOUSNESS  OF  GRATITUDE      .         .        .  183 

XV. — RIGHT  REVEREND  RECOLLECTIONS       .         .         .  192 

XVI. — KITCHENER  OF  KHARTOUM 208 

'>  XVII. — IN  TOUCH  WITH  THEIR  EXCELLENCIES         .         .  218 

XVIII. — A  VICEROY  IN  SLIPPERS 237 

XIX. — CONCERNING  WIT  AND  HUMOUR  .         .         .         .251 

XX. — RECOLLECTIONS  OF  BIARRITZ       ....  261 
XXI. — THE    LATE    LORD    BYRON    (GEORGE    FREDERICK 

WILLIAM,  NINTH  PEER) 276 

XXII. — AN  EASTER  AUDIENCE.    THE  FUTILE  PEACE        .  304 

XXIII. — MEMORABLE  SAYINGS 317 

INDEX 329 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

Sir  James  Denham  ......        Frontispiece 

Cardinal  Howard     ......    Facing  p.     12 

Elizabeth,  Duchess  of  Manchester,  and  Her 

Son,  the  Fifth  Duke.     (By  kind  permission  oj 

Messrs.  Davis  Bros.,  Chelsea).         .         .         .          „  32 

Mrs.  Ronalds  .......,,  44 

General  Sir  Francis  Seymour,  Bart.,  K.C.B.  .  „  54 

Her  Grace  the  Duchess  of  Inverness  (wife  of  the 

Duke  of  Sussex)    ......          „  64 

Lady  Seymour         .......  72 

His  Royal  Highness  the  Duke  of  Sussex  .  .  ,,  80 

Colonel  Lord  Edward  Pelham  Clinton,  G.C.V.O.  ,,  92 

When  Music  sleeps  'tis  but  to  dream  of  Song. 

(His  Lounge  HalL     Photographed  by  Sir  James 

Denham)      .......          ,,  106 

His  Majesty  the  King  of  Roumania.  (From  a 

photograph  by  Sir  James  Denham)  .  .  .  „  114 

His  late  Majesty  King  Carol  of  Roumania 

(From  a  photograph  by  Sir  James  Denham)       .          ,,  114 

Lord  Sydenham  of  Combe,  G.C.M.G.  .         .          ,,  124 

Colonel  Fred  Gore    .         .         .         .         .         .          „  144 

The  Assassinator  of  the  Stoat  (Vivian  Denham, 

aged  two).     (From  a  photograph  by  his  father, 

the  Author  oj  this  Volume)  .  .  .  .  ,,  164 

"  Whom  to  know  is  to  love."  (Lord  Lawrence's 

tribute  to  the  poet's  father)  .  .  .  .  ,,  240 

The  late  Lord  Byron  .  .  .  .  .  „  280 


MEMOIRS  OF  THE  MEMORABLE 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF    ROME 

Eternal  City  and  Interned  Pope.  Titivating  for  the  Pope  as  for  a  Ball.  Groomed 
by  a  Monsignor.  Dreams  of  the  Past  by  the  Gleams  of  the  Tiber.  Age  with 
its  Blessing  for  Youth  and  Inspiration  for  Life's  Way.  A  Marchioness  in  the 
Nude.  The  Apathy  of  Rome  in  the  Procreation  of  Peace.  The  Pomps  of 
the  Past  and  the  Soul's  Solitude.  Lady  Anna  smells  a  Rat.  A  Monsignor 
riding  for  a  Fall.  Prayers  on  the  Gallop.  My  Momentous  Maundy  Thursday. 

FT  was    happy    Eastertide,  the  rising    from    the  earth 
•*•     of  all  glad  things.     The  sun  crept  across  the  Cam- 
pagna  and  it  was  morn  in  Rome. 

Beneath  me  the  Piazza  di  Spagna  was  a  mass  of  flowers. 
The  country  people  were  there  in  their  carts,  and  the 
mules  with  their  panniers.  Roses  and  lilies  galore, 
narcissi,  dahlias  and  daffodils.  The  air  was  one  long-drawn 
breath  of  spring.  The  great  war-ship  of  Bernini,* 
La  Barcaccia,  was  no  longer  bellicose.  There  was  rapture 
in  the  water  as  it  gurgled  from  the  cannons.  The  pure 
white  spray  shot  up  to  meet  the  sun,  and  now  and  then 

*  Bernini  (1598-1680),  architect,  sculptor  and  painter,  was  director  of  public 
works  in  Rome  and  superintended  the  building  of  St.  Peter's  under  the  pontificates 
of  Urban  VIII.,  Innocent  X.,  Alexander  VII.  and  Clement  X.  He  showed  his 
adroitness  of  mind  as  well  as  genius  of  conception  in  this  remarkable  fountain,  for  as 
the  pressure  of  water  from  the  Acqua  Vergine  was  inadequate,  he  bethought  him  of 
cannons  as  an  outlet.  Such  was  the  origin  of  his  ship. 

I 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

there  was  a  rainbow  tint  as  if  the  white  foam  Caught 
reflection  from  the  flowers. 

Who  could  feel  other  than  glad  on  such  a  morn  F 
I  ought  to  have  felt  solemn,  but  I  didn't.  I  was  going  to 
see  Pope  Leo  XIII.,  and  the  audience  was  timed  for  eight 
o'clock.  I  did  not  like  the  hour — it  seemed  terrible  that 
a  man,  who  should  be  for  such  an  occasion  in  the  most 
spiritual  of  moods,  should  be  exasperated  to  a  degree  by 
things  hitherto  out  of  his  curriculum.  I  have  never  been  in- 
fatuated by  the  art  of  rising  at  six-thirty  and  donning  even- 
ing dress  and  swallow-tails  and  white  tie  at  the  uncanny  hour 
of  seven.  How  can  the  soul  of  man  be  calm  and  pious 
when  the  interior  of  him  be  cavernous  and  empty  ?  It 
was  too  early  for  the  morning  croissants,  hot  and  ingratiating, 
so  I  had  none,  and  the  hotel  chef  was  evidently  an  agnostic, 
for  his  cafe  au  lait  was  cold  comfort. 

Reluctantly  I  turned  from  that  sunny  window,  for  if 
one  thing  is  more  certain  than  another  it  is  that  I  cannot 
go  to  His  Holiness  as  I  am,  and  it  will  never  do  for  Mon- 
signor  Capell  to  find  me  unready.  So  I  proceed  with  the 
hateful  task  of  titivating  for  a  Pope  as  for  a  ball,  with  its 
consequent  intermixture  of  piety  and  profanity. 

At  this  juncture  in  comes  Monsignor  Capell  diffusing 
that  breeziness  of  bonhomie  which  made  him  one  of  the 
best  of  companions.  Witty,  eloquent,  bon-vivant,  he 
was  essentially  a  man  of  the  world  and  at  that  time  in  the 
full  popularity  of  his  powers.  The  clouds  emanating  from 
the  ascetic  Manning  were,  as  he  was  often  warned  by  me, 
on  the  move  to  darken  him.  But  he  was  essentially  a  man 
content  with  laissez  aller  and  took  no  heed  of  the  inevit- 
able. For  weeks  and  weeks  we  had  been  inseparable,  and 
to  whatever  dinner-party  he  was  bidden,  there  was  certain 
to  be  a  card  for  me. 

2 


Recollections  of  Rome 

After  a  few  growls  on  my  part  on  the  absurdity  of  going 
to  see  a  Pope  at  eight  in  the  morning,  and  the  monstrosity 
of  having  to  go  in  evening  clothes,  he  seized  a  brush  and 
gave  me  a  grooming  as  if  I  were  a  horse,  saying,  "  Now 
you  look  presentable  enough  for  a  heretic,"  and  in  a  few 
moments  we  were  in  the  carriage  whirling  away  to  the 
Vatican.  I  shall  never  forget  that  drive  and  the  thoughts 
that  were  within  me.  Capell,  whose  tact  in  one  direction 
was  equalled  only  by  his  want  of  it  in  others,  forbore  to 
meddle  with  my  silence.  Here  was  I  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
three,  honoured  with  an  audience  which  many  would 
covet,  about  to  enter  that  mysterious  and  unfamiliar 
stronghold  which  is  at  once  a  palace  and  a  prison.  The 
Tiber  of  the  Caesars  glittered  to  my  right,  and  all  around 
me  the  dim-  ages  of  dead  years  spoke  as  a  visible  presence — 
Popes,  Prelates,  Princes  of  the  past — men  whose  astute- 
ness had  built  up  a  temporal  power  which  the  aftermath 
of  the  ages  had  crumbled  into  dust. 

On  arriving  at  the  Vatican,  after  traversing  innumer- 
able ante-halls,  I  was  received  by  Cardinal  Howard,  who 
was  kindness  itself.  Of  this  most  splendid  specimen  of 
the  human  race  there  is  much  that  might  be  told.  An 
ex-guardsman,  and  towering  head  and  shoulders  over  the 
majority  of  mankind,  he  was  every  inch  of  him  a  Cardinal 
Prince,  and  even  Ouida,  had  she  included  him  in  "  Strath- 
more,"  would  have  found  it  difficult  to  exaggerate  his  com- 
manding presence,  and  no  Englishman  could  but  feel  proud 
that  our  country  and  its  great  historic  family  so  splendidly 
represented  the  manhood  of  England.  His  Eminence  was 
kind  enough  to  tell  me  that  I  was  not  to  feel  nervous, 
that  the  Holy  Father  was  very  kind  and  was  much  in- 
terested in  seeing  me,  and  that  he  would  say  a  few  words 
probably  in  French,  and  that  if  I  did  not  understand  His 

3  i* 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

Holiness  I  was  not  to  interrupt  but  to  listen.  I  mentally 
resolved  that  I  would  give  His  Holiness  no  chance  of 
hearing  my  voice,  and  not  to  do  him  the  evil  of  letting 
him  listen  to  my  French. 

Of  the  gorgeous  appearance  and  accoutrements  of  the 
Papal  Guard  so  much  has  been  said  that  one  need  not 
dilate.  It  is  recruited  from  the  noblest  blood  in  Europe. 
You  can  imagine  my  surprise  when  suddenly  one  of  the 
Guard  comes  over  to  me  and  shakes  me  warmly  by  the 
hand.  I  could  not  at  first  recognize  my  old  friend  Willie 
Vavasour,  afterwards  Sir  William  Vavasour  of  Hazlewood, 
near  Harrogate. 

When  the  massive  doors  were  cast  backward  from 
the  centre,  I  was  ushered  into  the  presence  of  the  Pope. 
He  sat  there  in  a  high  chair  of  semi-state  ;  it  was  a  scene 
as  impressive  as  unforgettable.  One  had  a  vision  of  an 
eager  face  and  ivory  features  exquisitely  accentuated  by 
priceless  pictures  mellowed  by  the  fondling  touch  of  Time. 
There  was  no  great  ceremony  in  this  picture  setting  as 
might  have  been  in  audience  of  a  King.  It  was  Age  with 
its  blessing  for  Youth,  and  inspirations  for  life's  way. 

His  Holiness  asked  me  was  this  my  first  visit  to  Rome, 
and  was  even  kind  enough  to  warn  me  against  the  after- 
noon mists,  which,  he  added,  are  alas  !  more  fatal  to  youth 
than  to  manhood.  This,  so  intrinsically  human,  was  fol- 
lowed by  spiritual  guidance.  It  was,  as  it  were,  the  soul 
of  supremacy.  There  was  a  deliberate  dignity  of  quiet 
in  his  utterance  which  betrayed  a  mind  augustly  authorita- 
tive. Yet  age  was  wounding  him,  the  pallor  was  upon 
him  of  a  not  distant  white  wing.  Yet,  as  the  light  will 
shine  through  the  lantern's  crumbling  glass,  his  invincible 
vitality  would  sustain  him  to  the  end. 

Son  of  Count  Pecci,  his  bearing  denoted  noble  birth. 

4 


Recollections  of  Rome 

But  there  was  infinitely  more  in  the  man  than  that.  He 
was  one  of  the  courtliest  of  men,  and  possessed  the  in- 
stincts of  diplomacy.  His  Holiness  had  the  rare  facility 
of  ready  speech,  and  his  kindness  of  heart  no  less  than 
the  culture  of  his  mind  made  it  inevitable  that  he  should 
say  the  right  thing.  Moreover  it  was  always  something 
appropriate  to  the  occasion. 

He  was  a  satirist  too  when  necessity  demanded.  There 
is  good  evidence  of  this  in  his  celebrated  reply  to  the 
ill-mannered  Marquis  who  thought  to  embarrass  him. 
His  Holiness  was  at  the  time  Archbishop  of  Perugia  and 
was  sent  as  Nuncio  to  Brussels.  At  a  dinner  party  at  that 
capital  a  young  man  with  execrable  taste  handed  his 
Eminence  a  snuff-box  on  the  lid  of  which  was  painted  a 
lady  in  the  nude.  The  Archbishop,  looking  at  it,  said  as 
if  to  himself  :  "  Gentlemen  do  not  parade  the  present- 
ment of  other  men's  wives :  it  must  therefore  be  that 
of  his  own ; "  then  turning  to  the  Marquis,  he  innocently 
queried :  "  The  portrait  of  Madame  la  Marquise,  no 
doubt."  The  Marquis  took  a  back  seat  after  that. 

Another  instance  of  Pope  Leo's  satire  recurs  as  told  me 
by  Cardinal  Howard.  His  Holiness  was  being  carried  to 
the  Sistine  Chapel,  when  he  passed  some  angular  Protestant 
spinsters,  who  considered  it  due  to  their  religion  to  stand 
irreligiously  rigid  amongst  that  kneeling  crowd.  "  We 
have  added  to  our  statues,"  was  the  Pope's  quiet  remark  to 
an  attendant  Prelate.  How  individual  character  is  shown 
by  such  a  remark  !  Pio  Nono,  Leo's  predecessor,  under 
similar  circumstances,  said  to  the  erect  ladies  :  "  My 
daughters,  an  old  man's  blessing  can  injure  no  one." 

After  the  spirited  and  timely  utterance  of  his  Eminence 
Cardinal  Bourne,  strongly  deprecating  the  atrocities  in 
Ireland,  it  is  seasonable  to  recall  that  the  great  Pontiff  who 

5 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

accorded  me  the  honour  of  an  audience  as  vehemently  de- 
nounced the  murderous  methods  of  the  Irish  Land  League 
in  1888.  Differences  of  creed  apart,  this  writer  has  per- 
petually wondered  why  it  has  not  been  a  stronger  policy  in 
Papal  rule  to  deprecate  more  energetically  from  the  pulpit 
disturbances  which  dislocate  trade  and  increase  the  poverty 
of  the  land.  An  enriched  Ireland  would  mean  augmented 
revenues  for  the  Papacy.  Peter's  Pence  would  be  more  than 
doubled  and  the  Papacy  would  evince  its  power  in  the 
procreation  of  Peace. 

Since  that  bright  Spring  morning  years  ago  this  writer 
has  experienced  many  royal  functions,  but  it  is  questionable 
whether  any  can  vie  in  colour  and  impressiveness  with  that 
gorgeous  yet  simple  scene  which  I  have  witnessed.  So 
much  of  History  spoke  therein.  Rome  had  played  so 
many  parts  in  the  annals  of  the  Ages,  and  that  old  man 
with  his  wonderful  eyes  and  dignified  presence  seemed  to 
me  to  be  an  impersonation  of  the  Past  as  well  as  an  influence 
in  the  Present.  That  I  was  alone  in  that  Audience,  with 
all  its  splendid  setting  of  guards  and  papal  ceremonially  no 
means  lessened  the  colouring  of  the  picture  which  no 
passage  of  Time  has  succeeded  in  erasing. 

However,  the  soul  of  me  is  aloof  and  continuously  con- 
stant to  its  olden  love  of  simplicity — the  quietude  of  the 
dear  hillside,  the  reserve  of  the  mountain  range,  and  all  that 
is  grand  and  great  in  pine  wood  and  by  the  ocean  shore — 
it  is  food  indeed  to  have  lived  occasionally,  partaking  if  but 
for  a  moment  of  the  atmosphere  which  the  Past  has  woven 
into  an  influence  of  the  Present.  The  olden  courtliness 
which  pervades  the  palace  of  St.  James's  as  we  assemble  to 
recognize  our  King,  those  touches  of  the  bygone  which 
colour  the  anniversaries  of  historic  occasions,  are  all  things 
it  is  well  to  see.  In  them  we  find  that  atmosphere  of 

6 


Recollections  of  Rome 

the  Past  which  colours  for  us  the  heart's  dear  solitude  of 
soul. 

On  returning  to  my  hotel,  I  was  wending  my  unosten- 
tatious way  up  the  staircase  (time,  8.45  a.m. ;  costume, 
evening  dress)  when  whom  should  I  chance  upon  but  a 
great  lady  who  had  often  been  my  hostess.  Lady  Anna 
Chandos-Pole,  noting  my  white  tie,  affected  not  to  see  me. 
But  I  would  not  have  this  at  any  price,  so  said :  "  Good 
morning,  Lady  Anna  !  "  Lowering  her  eyes  and  regarding 
my  white  tie,  sternly  she  interrogated,  "  And  where  have 
you  been,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  "  "  Oh,"  said  I  gaily, 
"  I  have  been  to  see  the  Pope."  Whereupon  Lady  Anna 
elevated  her  head  and  passed  on.  Her  daughter,  who 
was  following  in  her  wake,  said,  "  Tell  me  another  !  " 

This,  and  some  other  similar  experiences  in  life, 
convinces  me  that  one  reaps  the  lowliest  character  from  the 
loftiest  of  intention.  Whereupon  it  strikes  me  that  one 
might  as  well  eat  the  cake  if  one  has  to  pay  for  it. 

The  allusion  made  to  that  complex  personality, 
Monsignor  Capell,  would  be  incomplete  without  something 
more  from  me.  The  initial  feat  which  brought  him  into 
prominence  with  his  Church  was  the  leading  into  its  fold 
of  the  late  Lord  Bute. 

The  landing  of  such  a  prize  as  Lord  Bute,  a  man  of 
considerable  wealth,  naturally  brought  Capell  into  wide- 
spread notoriety.  His  eloquence  effected  the  rest.  Long 
before  I  knew  him,  when  in  my  teens,  I  shall  not  easily 
forget  the  impression  he  made  upon  me,  and  little  could 
one  anticipate  that  days  were  coming  when  we  should 
banter  each  other  with  badinage  and  epigram.  He  was 
often  the  Bryant  and  May's  match,  unlit  without  the  box, 
but  with  a  good  foil  present  and  one  who  knew  how  to 
ignite  him  he  was  brilliancy  itself.  But,  dear  man,  he  was 

7 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

all  along  his  own  enemy,  and  all  I  could  say  in  persuasions 
or  cursings  was  but  idle  futility.  For  instance,  there  is  a 
custom,  I  am  led  to  believe,  in  the  Catholic  Church  that  a 
Bishop,  or  one  like  Capell  who  ranked  as  such,  should  not 
shake  hands  with  women,  and  certainly  not  cloak  them. 
But  of  the  many  dinner  parties  to  which  I  went  with  Capell, 
I  never  saw  him  miss  the  opportunity  of  cloaking  anything 
that  was  lovable.  When  on  our  way  home  this  writer 
expostulated,  he  would  accuse  me  of  mean  envy.  But  you 
can  be  quite  sure  that  such  doings  were  not  long  in  reaching 
the  ears  of  his  Eminence  at  Westminster,  and  Capell's  fall 
was  as  pre-ordained  as  are  ashes  after  fire.  With  an  eccle- 
siastic after  the  manner  of  Cardinal  Wiseman  the  end  might 
have  been  otherwise,  but  who  could  influence  one  like 
Manning  ?  And  yet  there  was  little  harm  in  the  man. 
I  was  with  him  weeks  and  weeks  and  he  had  but  the  joy  of 
life,  its  sparkle,  its  spontaneity. 

I  well  remember  one  laborious  day  he  gave  me,  and  I 
look,  as  he  told  me,  for  its  reward  in  another  life.  It  appears 
that  something  soothing  happens  to  you  according  to  the 
number  of  Churches  you  have  visited  on  the  Maundy 
Thursday.  Capell  told  me  that  though  I  was  but  a  heretic, 
he  would  like  to  feel  that  he  had  done  me  a  good  turn. 
"  I  shall  have  my  carriage  at  the  door  at  6  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  I  shall  bring  you  some  coffee  at  5.30,  and  we'll 
start  on  a  round  of  Churches."  Well,  for  all  my  sins,  so  we 
did.  He  would  bounce  out  of  the  carriage  before  it  had 
stopped,  and  was  well  into  some  Church  before  I  could 
follow.  He  would  start  a  prayer,  rapid  as  a  racehorse, 
before  you  could  say  Jack  Robinson,  if  at  such  a  time  you 
would  care  to  think  of  that  profane  person.  Seeing  that 
the  pace  was  likely  to  tell  upon  me,  I  intimated  to  him  that 
my  prayers  were  slower  and  that  I  had  a  good  number  of 

8 


Recollections  of  Rome 

them  to  pray,  by  which  means  I  was  able  to  get  a  somewhat 
more  adequate  idea  of  some  of  the  exquisite  little  Chapels 
which  we  visited.  I  feel  sure  of  it  that,  in  spite  of  the 
pious  purpose  of  our  peregrinations,  this  voyage  of  dis- 
covery had  an  evil  effect,  for  it  soon  grew  upon  me  that  as 
long  as  this  life  lasted  I  might  possibly  nevermore  wish  to 
see  the  interior  of  a  Church.  They  say  that  when  young 
girls  are  employed  in  tea  shops  they  are  allowed,  in  fact 
enticed,  to  eat  all  the  chocolates  they  can,  so  that  in  the 
end  they  sicken  at  sight  of  them.  This  is  what  I  feared 
that  Capell's  round  of  sacred  edifices  (numbering  a  hundred 
or  more)  would  do  for  me. 


II 

THE    ROME    OF   THE   EIGHTIES 

Party  Feeling  in  Rome.  Black  and  White — Fermentation  of  Spirit — with  Apologies 
to  Dewar.  Lady  Eyre's  Lenten  Dinners.  The  Hunger  of  a  House-Party. 
A  Cardinal  in  Deshabille.  The  Kissing  of  the  Sacerdotal  Seal.  Palazzo 
Barbarini — Rome's  Social  Centre.  The  Story  of  a  Game  of  Cards.  "  Who 
the  devil  is  Mr.  Creswell  ?  "  The  Tale  of  an  "  Honest  Thief."  The  late 
Poet  Laureate — "  Are  you  a  son  of  Miss  Austen,  the  Novelist  ?  "  Descendants 
of  Elizabeth,  the  Virgin  Queen.  A  Recollection  of  Lady  Sitwell  and  the  late 

Sir  George.     That  d d  Smile  of  Mine.     Story's  "  Best  Turn  " — He  sits 

on  my  Hat.  In  Converse  with  the  Cassars  and  where  Horace  sings.  An 
Animated  Argument — Solomon  ruled  out  of  the  Running.  "  Shafts  of  Wit 
and  Joy  made  Bright."  "  I've  been  a-roaming  " — A  "  Bright "  Idea.  Quail 
Shooting  on  the  Campagna.  Mules  Galore  and  a  Retinue  of  Desperadoes. 
Accompanied  by  "  Browning  "  and  "  Swinburne." 

IT  was  a  Black  and  White  world,  that  Rome  of  the 
Eighties.  If  you  were  White,  you  were  barely  re- 
ceived by  the  Black  ;  and  if  you  were  Black,  the  White  were 
scarcely  expansive.  These  diverse  hues  stood  severally  for 
the  Court  and  Papal  parties,  and  they  lived  not  together  as 
the  millennial  lamb  and  lion.  The  Eternal  City  was  bur- 
rowed with  intrigue,  and  there  were  many  wise  men,  and 
some  few  exceptional  women,  who  were  careful  to  weigh 
their  words. 

My  recollections  of  that  Rome  recall  a  considerable 
number  of  feminine  converts.  Our  spiritual  proclivities, 
like  the  family  tiara,  are  visible  but  on  state  occasions. 
The  old  Catholic  families  never  advertised  their  Catholicism, 
but  the  convert  lady  was  never  without  her  spiritual  tiara, 

10 


The  Rome  of  the  Eighties 

and  though,  of  course,  I  cannot  vouch  for  the  fact,  not 
having  actually  seen  it,  I  dare  swear  that  she  slept  in  it. 

The  first  passionate  impulse  of  the  new  convert  was 
invariably  to  remove  herself  corporally  to  the  Eternal  City. 
She  felt  that  she  could  not  be  too  close  to  the  Holy  Father 
and  the  ecclesiastical  atmosphere.  Being  rich  she  ban- 
queted prelates  galore,  and  was  oblivious  of  the  truism 
that  "  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view."  This 
binding  of  yourself  to  the  Church  is  not  unlike  the  bond 
matrimonial.  I  have  known  of  some  ideally  happy  mar- 
riages ;  but  the  husband  has  been  in  India  all  the  time. 

But  to  return  to  Black  and  White,  which  must  in  no 
way  be  confused  with  the  lucrative  industry  of  a  recently 
created  peer. 

Naturally,  being  with  Monsignor  Capell,  and  privileged 
to  know  several  of  the  Sacred  College,  having,  moreover, 
been  received  three  times  by  the  Holy  Father,  I  was  not 
exactly  the  person  to  be  asked  largely  to  the  functions  of 
the  Italian  Court. 

Meanwhile  my  opportunities  for  examining  sacer- 
dotalism at  close  quarters  were  exceptional.  One 
remembers  how  the  kindly  Lady  Eyre  invited  me  to  a 
"  repast  "  (being  Lent  she  would  not  call  it  a  dinner-party). 
Her  daughter  and  I  were  the  only  "  heretics  "  present,  but 
I  was  favoured  in  meeting  no  less  than  seven  prelates. 
They  bore  themselves  manfully,  and  gave  one  the  im- 
pression that  they  considered  this  world  as  no  bad  place. 

This  writer  may  say,  en  passant,  that,  except  in  some 
rare  instances  of  eager  women,  there  was  little  attempt  to 
win  me  over  to  that  brilliant  fold.  It  may  have  been  the 
true  art  which  conceals  itself,  or  that  astuteness  not  slow  to 
realize  that,  young  as  I  was,  I  was  more  open  to  conviction 
than  to  persuasion. 

ii 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

Allusion  has  already  been  made  to  Cardinal  Howard 
and  his  kindness  to  me  at  the  Vatican.  Later  on  we  shall 
have  to  record  his  ciceronage  when  I  visited  the  Roman 
homestead  of  Keats,  so  many  details  of  which  were  known 
to  the  Cardinal  and  so  carefully  explained  to  me. 

With  reference  to  the  austerities  observed  by  new 
converts  to  Roman  Catholicism,  and  indeed  not  infrequently 
by  the  older  English  families  which  have  adhered  to  the 
ancient  faith,  I  may  mention  a  story  told  me  by  that  dear 
and  popular  sportsman,  Colonel  Cradock-Hartopp,  himself 
a  near  relation  of  the  Cardinal.  It  appears  that  the  very 
orthodox  will  not  hear  of  breaking  their  fast,  until  they  have 
been  blessed  by  His  Eminence,  should  there  be  by  any 
possibility  a  Cardinal  within  reach.  Howard  carried  with 
him  into  sacerdotal  life  many  of  the  instincts  of  a  guardsman. 
His  Eminence  was  by  no  means  ascetic.  You  could  not 
well  imagine  two  Cardinals  more  diverse  than  Howard  and 
Manning.  The  Cardinal  Archbishop  of  Westminster  was 
up  at  cockcrow,  but  there  was  not  a  rooster  living  whose 
lungs  could  disturb  the  slumbers  of  Howard.  He  break- 
fasted in  his  room,  and  dealt  not  kindly  with  obstruction. 
All  this  was  very  well  for  the  Cardinal,  but  what  about  the 
house  party  that  was  waiting  for  breakfast  ?  According 
to  "  Topps  "  Hartopp  the  majority  absolutely  refused  to 
comfort  themselves  with  so  much  as  a  sausage.  At  last  by 
infinite  resource  and  ingenuity  a  species  of  Punch  and  Judy 
box  was  rigged  up  in  the  corridor.  The  Cardinal's  room 
was  fortunately  at  the  end  of  the  passage,  so  the  making  of 
this  box  was  fairly  easy,  and  into  it  the  Cardinal  slid  in  his 
deshabille,  and  extended  his  ringed  hand  through  an  infan- 
tile aperture,  which  was  reverentially  embraced  by  the  hun- 
gry crowd.  After  this  "  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell," 
and  the  guests  descended  to  their  bacon  while  His  Eminence 

12 


CARDINAL    HOWARD. 


[To /ace  page  12. 


The  Rome  of  the  Eighties 

presumably  ascended  to  his  bed.  Colonel  Hartopp  was  a 
most  reliable  man.  I've  never  known  him  exaggerate, 
even  anent  an  odd  fish,  the  many  occasions  I  have  angled 
with  him,  and  I  have  every  reason  on  his  account  to  credit 
this  story,  especially  as  from  my  own  knowledge  of  His 
Eminence  and  the  friendship  he  extended  to  me,  I 
esteemed  him  a  man  of  sufficient  force  and  character  to 
obtain  such  slumber  as  he  considered  requisite. 

I  do  not  recall  that  Howard  evinced  any  particular 
partiality  for  Capell  any  more  than  did  the  Cardinal  Arch- 
bishop. But  the  distaste  sprang  from  widely  different 
reasons.  The  Cardinal  surged  with  the  blood  of  the 
Howards.  He  never  allowed  himself  to  forget  that  his 
line  was  manipulative  in  the  making  of  kings,  and  he  had 
small  sympathy,  and  at  times  less  tolerance,  for  people 
deficient  in  pedigree.  It  would  take  a  very  great  deal  of 
piety  to  adjust  this  want  of  balance.  Thinking  of  the 
many  men  of  diverse  mind  and  mien  whom  I  have  met,  I 
am  fully  persuaded  that,  take  him  all  in  all,  his  majestic 
height  and  commanding  manner,  the  Church  will  not 
easily  find  in  any  dominant  family  a  son  to  represent  so 
fully  delineation  of  race. 

The  Palazzo  Barbarini  was  a  power  in  the  Rome  of 
those  days.  Tenanted  by  W.  W.  Story  and  his  able  wife, 
it  was  a  social  centre.  There  you  were  certain  to  meet 
all  who  were  interesting  or  unique  among  the  visitants 
to  the  Eternal  City.  In  addition  to  those  whose  rank 
was  their  passport,  the  Storys  had  welcome  for  everyone 
of  intellectual  achievement,  and  their  ((  Evenings  "  were 
a  pleasure  and  oftentimes  a  profit.  They  had,  what 
specially  endeared  them  to  me,  a  vast  understanding  of 
the  humorous,  and  here  I  must  give  you  an  instance. 

I  had  been  the  guest  of  that  never  to  be  replaced  Irish- 

13 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

man,  Mr.  Hume  Dick,  at  Humewood  Castle.  The  Groom 
of  the  Chambers  there  was  quite  an  important  personage. 
He  had  very  considerably  contributed  to  my  comfort. 
He  was  in  my  room  when  the  packing  was  proceeding,  and 
I  said  to  him  :  "  Creswell,  I  should  very  much  like  to  do 
something  for  you  if  ever  I  have  the  power  ;  mind  you  let 
me  know  if  the  occasion  should  arise."  He  thanked  me 
very  much  and  said,  "  Indeed  you  can,  Sir,  and  at  the 
present  moment,  for  my  wife  has  taken  over  a  house  in 
Mayfair,  and  she  wants  to  get  some  nice  people  of  the 
right  sort  there."  "  Oh,"  I  responded,  "  I'll  see  to  that ; 
put  some  of  your  cards  into  my  valise,  and  I'll  send  them 
when  I  hear  of  likely  people  coming  to  town." 

It  was  not  long  afterwards  that  I  found  myself  at  the 
Hotel  des  Anglais,  Nice,  and,  armed  with  a  portentous 
card-case,  I  chartered  a  fiacre  by  the  hour,  and  proceeded 
to  do  what  Dr.  Johnson  called  "  sow  dinners."  I  left  a  con- 
siderable number  of  cards,  and  amongst  others  on  two 
exceptionally  old  friends,  at  whose  houses  I  had  always 
been  a  welcome  guest.  They  were  the  Leghs  of  Barham 
Court  and  the  Howards  of  Villa  Howard.  The  ensuing 
week  gave  me  days  of  much  soul-humiliation.  "  Lord  !  " 
I  said,  "  the  changes  one  brief  year  effects !  And  oh  ! 
how  soon  the  world  forgets !  "  For  here  was  I  that  but 
a  twelve-month  since  had  left  troops  of  what  I  thought 
were  life-long  friends,  and  now,  to  quote  the  Immortal 
Bard,  "  There  was  not  one  to  do  me  reverence." 

Shortly  after,  I  found  myself  at  an  afternoon  party, 
and  soon  was  the  centre  of  an  angry  crowd.  "  Nice  sort  of 
friend  you  are,"  said  dear  old  Jack  Howard.  "  Been  here 
a  week  and  never  come  near  us  !  "  And  much  in  similar  ( 
vein  many  more.  Then  one  or  two  plied  me  with  such 
as  the  following  :  "  Here,  you  know  everyone,  who's  this 

14 


The  Rome  of  the  Eighties 

Mr.  Creswell  ?  He  left  cards  on  us,  '  Mr.  Creswell, 
furnished  lodgings,  Green  Street,  Park  Lane,'  and  he 
actually  had  the  impertinence  to  write  on  the  back,  c  So 
sorry  to  have  missed  you,  may  I  drop  in  to  lunch  some  day  ? ' 
Now  who  the  devil  is  Mr.  Creswell  ?  "  It  appeared  that 
I  had  faithfully  kept  my  promise  with  that  Groom  of  the 
Chambers  and  had  well  advertised  him.  It  also  appeared 
that,  instead  of  placing  his  cards  in  a  packet  in  my  valise, 
he  had  plentifully  filled  a  big  leather  card-case.  It  was  days 
before  I  heard  the  last  of  this  in  Nice. 

On  arriving  in  Rome,  I  thought :  "  Now,  I'll  pull 
Story's  leg."  So  I  fished  out  one  of  CreswelPs  cards  and 
proceeded  to  the  Palazzo  Barbarini  about  dejeuner  time. 
Arriving  at  Story's  door,  I  wrote  on  the  card,  "  Can  you 
give  me  some  lunch  ?  "  and  told  the  servant  to  take  it  in. 
The  servant  returned,  saying  that  I  must  have  made  some 
mistake,  as  neither  Mr.  nor  Mrs.  Story  had  ever  heard  of  me. 
I  told  the  man  to  take  back  the  card,  and  say  that  I  knew 
them  very  well  and  must  see  them.  Whereupon  outcomes 
Story  himself,  and  the  noise  of  delight  he  made  soon  brought 
out  his  wife  and  my  old  friend  Waldo  Story  (he  had  been 
at  Christ  Church  with  me),  who  all  thought  that  a  riot  was 
going  on  and  rushed  to  Mr.  Story's  support.  It  is  difficult 
to  reproduce  in  pen  and  ink  that  scene,  but  it  was  a  long 
time  before  Mr.  Creswell  was  forgotten  at  the  Palazzo 
Barbarini. 

The  Storys  were  so  quick  to  see  the  humorous  side 
of  a  question,  the  more  so  as  it  would  be  indeed  difficult 
to  find  anyone  more  widely  read,  more  cultured,  more 
ingrainly  intellectual  than  was  W.  W.  Story,  the  well 
known  sculptor.  An  alert  face,  in  which  kindliness  and 
intellect  strove  for  mastery,  he  just  missed  being  a  genius. 
I  recollect  how  amused  he  was  at  first  hearing  from  me  a 

15 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

story  which  I  called  "  The  Honest  Thief  !  " — a  somewhat 
paradoxical  title. 

Capell  had  warned  me  not  to  be  out  at  sunset.  "  Not 
only,"  he  said,  "  are  the  evening  exhalations  very  bad  for 
you,  but  there  are  a  number  of  footpads  about,  and  you 
should  always  put  your  hand  on  your  watch  should  you 
be  in  a  lonely  place." 

It  appears  that  a  certain  well-known  Englishman  had 
also  received  similar  counsel.  He  was  out  after  sundown 
near  the  Coliseum,  when  a  man  rushed  quickly  past  him. 
Instantly  the  Englishman  put  his  hand  to  his  pocket  and 
found  his  watch  gone.  He  started  in  hot  pursuit,  and 
after  a  bit  of  a  run  was  gaining  on  a  man  running  for  all  he 
knew  with  the  watch  in  his  hand.  Overtaking  the  man,  he 
gave  him  one,  and  repossessed  himself  of  his  watch.  On 
returning  to  his  hotel  he  found  his  own  watch  on  his  dressing- 
table,  whilst  he  had  in  his  hand  a  beautiful  gold  hunter 
and  chain.  The  most  extraordinary  part  of  this  story  is  its 
finale,  for  though  the  Englishman  at  once  gave  notice  to 
the  police,  and  even  inserted  an  advertisement  in  the 
papers,  the  owner  of  the  gold  hunter  was  never  traced  from 
that  day  to  this.  My  own  explanation  is,  that  the  owner, 
having  had  it  so  practically  demonstrated  to  him  that 
the  Eternal  City  was  in  some  respects  an  undesirable  place, 
and  considering  that  it  was  hopeless  to  prove  larceny 
against  a  man  whose  face  he  had  never  seen,  impulsively 
packed  his  portmanteau  and  departed.  That  is  how  a 
watch  can  be  purloined  with  the  most  honourable  inten- 
tions. 

W.  W.  Story  was  a  great  lover  and  critic  of  poetry, 
and  would  often  declare  that,  whilst  you  could  call  one  who 
sculps  a  sculptor,  whether  he  sculped  infamously  or  well, 
or  the  wearer  of  the  legal  wig  a  lawyer,  whether  he  knew 

16 


The  Rome  of  the  Eighties 

the  law  or  not ;  and  so  of  the  painter,  the  musician,  and 
all  else ;  no  one,  he  asserted,  would  be  justified  in  calling 
the  writer  of  so-called  poetry  a  poet  unless  he  were  the 
actual  genuine  article.  That,  in  fact,  the  word  Poet  did 
not  denote  a  profession  or  a  pastime,  but  designated  the 
man  as  the  possessor  of  genius.  Story  never  so  called  the 
late  Laureate,  and  one  day,  coming  to  his  wife,  he  said  : 
"  Look  here,  dear,  I've  just  met  Alfred  Austin,  and  have 
asked  him  to  one  of  your  evenings.  He'll  probably  call 
here  first,  and  then  you  must  remember  to  talk  to  him  about 
poetry."  Story,  who  told  me  this  himself,  said  that  he 
believed  his  wife  had  never  heard  of  Austin.  Anyway, 
when  he  came,  she  clean  forgot  what  she  was  told  to  talk 
about,  and  cudgelled  her  brains  to  find  out  who  he  was. 
Thinb'ng  him  a  dour  sort  of  person,  she  essayed  theology, 
but  met  with  no  response.  She  then  talked  about  law 
and  politics,  with  no  better  result.  She  then  had  an 
inspiration. 

"  Oh  !  he's  a  man  of  letters  or  a  novelist !  "  (mark  the 
inference,  which  is  Mrs.  Story's,  not  mine),  and  without 
further  thought  plumped  out : 

"  You've  written  a  good  deal,  Mr.  Austin.  Are  you  a 
son  of  Miss  Austen,  the  novelist  ?  "  Tableau ! 

Stopping  at  Scarborough  with  Lady  Sitwell,  mother 
of  the  present  Sir  George,  I  told  this  story  at  a  dinner 
party,  when  Lady  Sitwell  said  :  "  I  can  very  nearly  cap 
this,  for  when  my  husband  and  I  were  staying  at  a  little 
Swiss  hotel,  there  was  an  old  spinster  lady  who  rather 
bothered  us  by  persisting  in  talking  across  the  table.  It 
was  in  the  days  of  a  long  general  table  d'hote.  Wishing 
to  ingratiate  herself,  she  leant  across  the  table  and 
said : 

"  I  understand,  Sir  George,  that  you  are  of  Royal  descent. 

17  2 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

From  which  of  the  Royal  Sovereigns  are  you  descended  ?  " 
Sir  George,  wishing  to  shut  her  up,  curtly  responded : 

"  From  Queen  Elizabeth,  mum  !  " 

The  W.  W.  Storys  had  three  children  :  Waldo  and 
Julian,  who  were  Etonians  and  Oxonians,  and  a  daughter 
the  Marchesa  Medici.  Waldo  became  a  sculptor  like  his 
father.  Our  tables  were  side  by  side  when  we  were 
matriculating  for  Christ  Church,  and  I  will  not  deny  that 
we  were  some  mutual  help.  He  was  older  than  I,  had  seen 
more  of  the  world,  and  his  American  blood  made  him 
easily  adaptable  to  all  that  is  best  in  cosmopolitanism.  I 
think  I  may  safely  say  at  this  time  of  my  life  I  owed  rribre 
to  Waldo  Story  than  to  any  other  man.  He  did  much  to 
lick  me  into  shape.  He  told  me  that  if  I  did  not  drop 

that    d d    smile  of  mine  I'd  have    the   whole   place 

thinking  I  wanted  to  lift  a  fiver  out  of  them. 

From  the  very  outset,  Waldo  as  it  were  paved  the  way 
for  the  innumerable  friends  who  were  so  good  to  me  during 
my  Oxford  days.  Women  may  not  realize,  but  men 
assuredly  will,  how  large  a  place  an  errant  tie  or  collar  plays 
in  man's  estimate  of  man.  This  is  where  a  cultured  world- 
ling like  Story  was  of  use  to  a  haphazard  person  like  myself. 
The  second  day  after  going  into  residence  at  Christ  Church 
he  enters  my  rooms.  I  had  previously,  be  it  said,  bought 
a  new  bowler  hat  at  the  best  hatter's  in  Bond  Street  for  this 
self-same  term.  It  was  apparently  all  that  London  could 
do  in  the  way  of  adornment.  I  was  enjoying  myself  in  a 
saddleback  chair  :  the  hat,  on  a  settee,  by  my  side.  Story 
lights  a  cigarette,  and  says :  "  Do  you  know,  I  want  to  do 
you  a  good  turn."  I  said,  "  That's  very  kind  of  you." 
"  And  I  shall,"  continued  Story.  And  he  forthwith  sits 
down  on  my  hat.  "  There,"  he  said,  "  I've  done  you  the 
best  turn  you've  ever  had.  If  you'd  continued  to  wear 

18 


The  Rome  of  the  Eighties 

that    hat,    you    would    not    have   had    a    friend    in    the 
place." 

Waldo  was  a  man  of  excellent  taste.  He  had  also  a 
soupfon  of  genius  in  him,  and  during  his  years  in  Rome 
was  the  third  generation  of  his  family  to  be  a  notability, 
for  his  grandfather  (W.  W.'s  father)  was  the  great  Judge 
Story  whose  law  books  are  legal  text-books  in  the  States. 

Waldo  and  I  would  wander  all  the  night  through  round 
that  olden  Rome.  We  had  moonlit  hours  in  the  Coliseum 
and  thinking  times  and  arguments  galore  in  the  ancient 
Forum.  He  was  my  guide  to  material  Rome,  as  I  was 
perhaps  to  him  the  interpreter  of  the  speakings  of  Time 
from  out  those  crumbling  monuments  of  the  past.  To 
this  day,  howbeit  the  intervening  years  have  lashed  and 
bruised  me  with  trouble,  my  soul  thrills  at  the  thought 
of  those  hours. 

We  were  together  for  a  time  in  company  with  the 
Caesars !  We  heard  Horace  sing,  fresh  from  the  Sabine 
plains.  And  where  the  early  primrose  struggled  through 
the  fallen  marvels,  there  was  Proserpine,  with  armful  of  roses, 
beckoning  to  the  Summer  loitering  somewhere  mid  the 
sacred  hills. 

It  was  about  two  o'clock  one  morning  when  we  re- 
turned to  the  Palazzo  Barbarini,  and,  opening  the  door  of 
the  big  smoking-room,  we  were  aghast  to  find  ourselves 
in  the  midst  of  a  considerable  number  of  eminent  men. 
There  were  Newton  of  the  British  Museum,  the  Head  of 
Harvard  University,  the  Cambridge  Professor  of  History, 
Robert  Browning,  Marion  Crawford  and  others  of  the 
well-known.  An  animated  discussion  was  in  progress,  and 
Waldo  and  I,  feeling  rather  subdued,  stole  to  the  great 
oval  window,  opened  to  the  moonlight  of  Rome,  and  sat 
there  and  listened. 

19  2* 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

If  one  should  come,  as  came  to  Solomon,  and  offer 
choice  of  goodliest  gift,  what  would  one  choose  ?  This 
was  the  question  before  that  eminent  House.  Wisdom, 
as  Solomon  chose  and  exemplified  it,  was  ruled  out  of  the 
running;  and  the  favourites  seemed  to  be  Music,  Oratory, 
Sculpture,  Poetry,  Painting.  I  shall  never  forget  the 
interest  of  those  arguments. 

Story,  who  had  much  of  the  legal  acumen  of  his 
forensic  father,  was  agile  in  debate,  though  it  was  not  always 
easy  to  follow  him  when  he  clinched  an  argument  with 
a  passage  from  Euripides  or  Aristotle  in  the  original. 
After  utterances  from  every  one  present  (except  of  course 
our  two  silent  selves)  the  verdict  went  in  favour  of  Music, 
and  then  Newton  says  to  me  : 

"  Have  you  nothing  to  say  ?  " 

Waldo,  giving  me  a  great  prod,  says : 

"  Say  it,"  and  with  fear  and  trembling  I  said  to  the  room 
what  I  had  already  whispered  to  my  friend.  I  elaborated 
a  point  which  no  one  had  touched  upon.  "  Surely,  the 
value  of  a  gift  from  the  gods  largely  depends  upon  the 
facility  wherewith  it  can  be  utilized  ?  The  Poet  needs 
but  little  for  the  exercise  of  his  genius ;  the  Musician  needs 
much."  And,  would  you  believe  it,  I  never  was  so 
astonished  in  my  life,  that  argument  carried  the  House. 

It  was  often  after  that  that  we  were  partakers  in  many 
a  rough  and  ready  altercation  concerning  literature,  art 
and  the  inevitable  renaissance.  O,  they  were  great  nights 
those  !  Rome  of  the  Caesars  for  its  ante-hall ;  Forum  and 
Pantheon  and  the  olden  slabs  indented  with  the  foot- 
steps of  the  dead,  and  then  this  living  reveille  from  the 
voices  of  the  living  to  the  actualities  of  life  and  light  and 
all  that  lingers  in  literature  and  art.  O,  my  friends,  to  have 
lived  thus  is  to  know  life !  Give  me  no  sluggish  streams 

20 


The  Rome  of  the  Eighties 

darkened  with  foreshadowings  of  Styx.  To  this  day, 
when  the  shadows  lie  around  me  and  the  darkened  eyes 
can  see  not  of  the  light,  there  are  amphitheatres  of  luscious 
luminance  in  all  that  comes  to  me  from  the  past  with 
shafts  of  wit  and  joy  made  bright. 

So  much  for  those  dear  Roman  nights,  where  even  the 
beautiful  dawn  was  not  seldom  unwelcome.  The  days  had 
other  and  distinctive  delights — the  quail  shooting  on  the 
Campagna,  and  the  wanderings  through  many  an  olden 
villa  and  garden  overgrown  with  bloom.  Our  steps  were 
oftentimes  carpeted  with  moss,  green  as  from  the  am- 
brosial days  of  Horace.  Then  there  was  the  great  joy  of 
those  studios.  Beautiful  women  hewn  from  stone,  as 
indeed  so  many  of  our  living  divinities  are.  Their  hearts 
to  match  which  no  man  can  ever  melt. 

The  mention  of  a  frivolity  of  undergraduate  days 
seems  to  fall  in  naturally  here  in  these  remembrances  of 
Rome.  Canon  Bright  of  Christ  Church  had  been  widely 
accused  of  tending  towards  the  Romish  Faith.  Added  to 
this,  whether  his  convictions  had  centred  there  or  no, 
bodily  he  had  just  returned  from  a  prolonged  stay  in  the 
Eternal  City.  Simultaneously  appeared  one  of  Frank 
Miles's  charming  etchings  entitled  "  I've  been  a-roaming," 
a  beautiful  girl  with  garlands  in  her  hands.  This  picture 
was  prominently  exhibited  in  the  window  of  Shrimptons  in 
the  Broad,  the  centre  of  all  things  artistic  in  Oxford. 
Armed  with  the  head  of  Canon  Bright  decapitated  from  a 
photo,  I  proceeded  to  Shrimptons,  and  whilst  a  pal  en- 
gaged him  in  conversation,  pasted  the  Canon's  face  upon 
the  girl's  shoulders.  The  legend  underneath  "I've  been 
a-roaming  "  spoke  for  itself.  It  was  not  long  before  there 
were  crowds,  Dons  and  others,  outside  the  window,  and 
the  joke  spread  over  the  University.  Shrimp  ton  evidently 

J2I 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

regarded  it  as  a  good  advertisement,  for  the  picture  as  I 
left  it  remained  in  his  window  for  weeks. 

And  now  I  must  conclude  these  overlong  reminiscences 
of  Rome  with  a  final  remembrance.  One  day  Waldo  came 
to  me  and  said,  "  See  here,  you've  had  quite  enough  of 
dreaming  and  dancing  and  dining  in  Rome.  You  come 
along  to  the  Campagna  with  me  and  we'll  have  some  quail 
shooting." 

"  Right  you  are,"  I  assented,  and  the  day  was  named. 

When  it  arrived  we  proceeded  by  a  somewhat  ram- 
shackle cross-country  railway  for  what  seemed  about  a 
couple  of  hours,  and  then  alighting  at  a  little  shanty  of  a 
station,  nothing  more  than  a  rude  log-house  with  wild 
prairie  lands  all  round,  such  a  sight  met  mine  eyes  as  was 
a  joy  to  encounter.  There,  surrounding  the  station,  was 
an  absolute  army  of  caparisoned  mules,  quite  twenty 
or  more,  and  all  their  attendants  seemed  as  if  they  had 
been  desperadoes  dug  out  from  pictures  of  the  past. 

These,  if  you  please,  were  our  personal  convoy.  Our- 
selves and  our  luggage  and  all  that  we  should  eat.  It 
was  an  inspiring  thought  and  engendered  appetite.  I 
bestrode  my  mule  (an  antediluvian  buckjumper).  I  was 
in  such  spirits  as  never  was.  Picture  to  yourself  a  vast 
undulating  wilderness  of  russet  brown  and  ruddy  sand.  A 
wilderness  of  sparsely  covered  soil,  lonesome  and  forsaken 
of  all  the  world.  There  was  no  sound  in  it  of  song  or  living 
thing.  We  ourselves  seemed  to  supply  all  of  life  that  in  it 
was.  Ours  was  the  merriment  amid  that  desolation.  We 
moved  along  with  sound  of  bells  and  song  and  laughter. 
It  was  a  wondrous  procession,  Waldo  and  I  and  the  Bishop 
of  Rome,  as  Dr.  Nevin  was  called,  followed  by  that  retinue 
of  mules  and  wild,  semi-barbarous  drivers. 

After  awhile  I  said :    "  What  are  all  those  haycocks  in 

22 


The  Rome  of  the  Eighties 

the  distance  ?  "  "  Haycocks — do  you  call  them  ?  They 
are  no  more  haycocks  than  you  are  ;  they  are  the  houses  of 
the  gentry  here."  So  they  were,  for  these  people  seemed 
absolutely  uncivilized,  and  lived  in  the  rudest  way.  They 
were  rough  and  picturesque  and  dirty  and  cut-throaty. 
They  were  pure-bred  brigands,  to  whom  Waldo  had  to  pay 
a  hundred  pounds  annually,  or  else,  as  he  told  me,  such 
a  cavalcade  as  ours  would  be  a  mad  impossibility.  Nor, 
indeed,  would  our  lives  be  worth  a  day's  purchase.  Yet 
withal,  these  savages  had  some  sense  of  honour,  for,  the 
payment  having  been  made,  your  belongings  were  as  safe 
as  if  they  were  confided  to  the  Elders  of  a  Kirk.  It  was 
all  very  new  and  wonderful  and  exhilarating. 

We  were  two  hours  over  that  ride.  There  was  no 
dignity  in  my  walk  when  I  dismounted,  for  my  mule  did 
not  run  as  doth  a  Tennysonian  Lyric,  it  had  all  the 
ruggedness  and  abruptness  of  Browning.  In  fact  I  called 
him  Browning,  because  it  was  not  always  I  could  quite 
fathom  his  intentions.  Waldo's  mule  I  christened  Swin- 
burne, because  it  frequently  went  further  than  was  discreet 
in  that  land  of  precipices  and  sedge-grown  clefts.  And 
then  we  neared  the  glories  of  the  sea,  and  Waldo's 
shooting-box  was  such  as  I  have  never  seen  before  or  since. 

The  bungalow,  with  its  great  broad  wooden  verandahs, 
lay  on  the  marge  of  the  sea  ;  on  its  right,  the  side  verandahs 
overlooked  a  beautiful  river,  whose  moisture  enticed  a 
vividness  of  vegetation  in  wonderful  contrast  to  the  sun- 
harassed  leafage  of  the  Campagna.  The  river,  as  I  after- 
wards knew,  for  I  often  boated  up  it,  was  in  many  places 
exquisitely  arched  by  over-reaching  branches. 

It  is  the  saddest  part  of  all  to  shoot  the  homing  quail. 
The  little  bird  has  come  all  the  way  from  Africa.  And 
imagine  his  joy  after  those  miles  of  flowerless  seas  to  reach 

23 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

the  land  once  more.  But  oh,  the  pity  of  it !  There  awaits 
him  the  fowler's  gun,  and  the  rest  is  death  and  cookery. 
The  hours  of  sport  were  worse  than  going  to  see  the  Pope, 
for  we  had  to  be  dressed  and  out  by  4.30. 

How  exquisite  is  the  sight  of  the  rising  sun !  Alas, 
that  I  so  seldom  have  seen  it !  If  it  had  not  been  for 
coming  back  from  balls  or  occasions  like  these,  I  doubt  if 
this  bedridden  bard  would  ever  have  seen  the  like.  I 
guess  that  there  are  thousands  of  good  folk  who  have  never 
seen  the  dawn !  Leastways,  they  seldom  evidence  it  in 
their  souls. 

My  last  day  on  the  Campagna  ushered  in  what  I  always 
consider  one  of  the  most  strenuous  four-and-twenty  hours 
of  my  life.  Wakened  at  3.45,  we  started  after  dejeuner 
for  some  hours  of  a  ride  with  our  retinue  of  mules  across 
the  wilds  for  the  station.  Arriving  in  Rome,  I  had  only 
time  to  rush  into  evening  dress  for  a  dinner  party  given  by 
the  "  Bishop  "  to  evidence  to  me  the  superiority  of  Italian 
kid  over  English  lamb.  Then  the  mad  rush  across  Rome 
to  the  Palazzo  Barbarini,  to  which  Mrs.  Story  had  invited 
most  of  the  Embassies  and  Legations  to  hear  some  of  the 
gems  of  Keats  and  Shelley.  I  gave  them  some  forty 
minutes  of  these.  Then  supper,  and  a  most  terrific 
stampede  to  the  station  to  catch  the  night  mail  for  Naples 
en  route  for  the  yacht  Norseman  and  my  dear  old  friend 
Sydney  Platt  who  awaited  me  at  Syracuse.  Arriving,  I 
nearly  ended  my  career  by  bathing  with  the  sharks,  one  way 
of  putting  a  term  to  an  Englishman's  ignorance  of  other 
lands. 


Ill 

A  THING  OF  BEAUTY  IS  A  JOY  FOR  EVER. 

A  Remembrance  of  Lady  North  at  Glemham  Hall.  A  House-Party  on  the  Prowl. 
A  Saucer  in  Soapsuds.  The  Beatification  of  Blue  China.  The  Passing  of  the 
Picturesque.  A  Cardinal  as  Cicerone.  We  visit  the  Last  Homestead  of  Keats. 
The  Piteous  Contrast  of  Pomp  and  Poverty.  The  Tiny  Room  of  a  Timeless 
Immortality.  The  Soul  of  Bird-Song  o'er  the  Poet's  Tomb. 

AT  one  of  the  many  house  parties  at  Glemham  Hall, 
the  olden  seat  of  the  Norths,  an  animated  party  of 
exploration  was  formed  to  exploit  the  innumerable 
rooms  of  that  old-world  edifice.  I  remember  that  Mrs. 
Minto  Elliot,  the  well-known  author  of  "  An  Idle  Woman 
in  Italy,"  wife  of  the  Dean  of  Gloucester,  was  there,  eager 
to  contrast  England  with  Sicily ;  Lord  Edward  Clinton, 
Master  of  the  Household,  and  Lady  Edward ;  Colonel  and 
Mrs.  Forbes  Eden  ;  Deb  Monson,  Equerry  to  the  Duke  of 
Edinburgh,  and  many  others,  including  dear  old  Charlie 
Colnaghi.  Led  by  Lady  North  up  the  grand  staircase,  we 
ascended,  and  saw  King  Charles'  bedroom  with  the 
identical  furniture  he  used  ;  Queen  Mary's  room  with  self- 
same bed  used  by  that  hapless  Queen,  and  many  other 
memoried  rooms.  And  then  we  trooped  to  the  basements 
and  interviewed  the  kitchens,  the  stillrooms,  the  larders, 
and  finally  the  scullery.  Here,  Colnaghi,  with  that  alert 
sparrow-like  way  of  his,  pounced  upon  a  plate  whereon  lay 
a  huge  scrubby-looking  bar  of  common  washing  soap. 
With  an  eagerness  indescribable  he  thrust  aside  the  soap 

25 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

and  washed  the  plate  and  brought  it  to  the  window  for 
examination.  With  a  pocket  magnifying  glass  he  spent 
anxious  moments  over  it. 

That  plate,  it  was  reputed,  might  have  been  centuries 
in  that  scullery,  surviving  at  haphazard  the  brutalities  of 
ignorance.  Its  charmed  life  was  superior  to  the  wild 
tossings  of  Time  (and  of  kitchenmaids),  and  within  twenty 
minutes  of  Colnaghi's  find  it  was  ensconced  upon  a  shield  of 
velvet  on  one  of  the  most  prominent  walls  of  the  state 
drawing-room. 

And  why  all  this  ?  Simply  because  all  its  fellows  had 
perished  in  the  passage  of  Time.  Alone  was  it  left  of  an 
obsolete  art.  It  was  unreproducible,  the  heritage  of  a 
priceless  past. 

When  people  talk  to  me  of  this  wild  age,  and  of  the 
upsetting  onrush  of  mankind  with  its  overthrow  of  noble 
things,  and  its  irreverences  for  what  is  exalted  ;  when  they 
tell  me  that  there  will  be  no  room  in  the  days  to  come  for 
the  Poet,  and  that  the  lute  of  Song  will  be  stilled  within 
the  clamour  of  the  ages,  I  think  of  the  little  blue  china 
plate,  which  because  of  its  rarity  and  irreplaceableness  was 
enshrined.  It  will  surely  come  to  pass  that,  if  the  Soul  of 
Art  should  struggle  across  the  maelstrom,  it  will  be  appraised 
as  precious — "  A  thing  of  beauty  and  a  joy  for  ever  !  " 

We  that  are  thinkers  rather  than  rushers  through  the 
ravine  of  events  are  hard  put  to  it  to  smile ;  there  are 
metaphorically  our  attics  wherein  we  can  weep,  and  that 
divine  solace  of  the  gods  wherein  we  can  dream.  I  hold 
it  as  certain-sure  that,  for  the  development  of  all  that  is 
purest  in  human  progress,  there  must  be  present  in  some 
form  or  another  the  immortal  soul  of  beauty.  Without  it 
where  would  be  music,  eloquence,  painting,  poetry  ?  And 
what  would  the  world  be  without  them  ? 

26 


A  Thing  of  Beauty  is  a  Joy  for  Ever 

I  walk  along  the  streets  and  am  repelled  by  what  I 
see.  The  elongated  legs  of  damozels  and  the  receding 
skirt — aged  spinsterdom  affecting  babyhood.  And  in  the 
roadway  itself,  where  are  those  splendid  steeds  whose 
satin  coats  reflected  the  gleams  of  noon  ?  Where  are  the 
stately  equipages  wherein  sat  the  loveliness  and  grace  of 
womanhood  ?  These  things  have  passed,  and  those  who 
knew  and  loved  them  are  passing  too.  Soon  what  we 
have  seen  will  be  taken  as  fairy  tales,  and  unbelievable 
at  that.  Nevertheless,  the  beautiful  things  of  earth  are 
passing,  and  we  are  replacing  them  by  that  widespread 
rush  for  wealth  and  pleasure  which  overthrows  all  the  olden 
landmarks  in  its  riotous  stampede. 

In  that  year  of  grace  1921,  when  that  minute  minority 
which  finds  time  to  esteem  genius  was  celebrating  the 
centenary  of  the  death  of  Keats,  it  is  singularly  appropriate 
that,  in  continuing  my  remembrances  of  Cardinal  Howard, 
I  should  tell  how  he  was  so  kindly  my  cicerone  in  visiting 
the  house  the  Poet  occupied. 

With  the  trappings  of  estate,  as  became  a  great  Cardinal, 
he  drove  me  to  those  humble  rooms  overlooking  the  Piazza 
di  Spagna,  where  lived  and  died  an  Immortality. 

"  If  that  The  Beautiful  can  die  that  sleeps  to  wake  again — 
The  continuity  of  Time  fulfilled  in  golden  grain." 

We  entered  that  small  room  wherein  the  Poet  breathed 
his  last.  This  writer  has  his  six  feet  of  stature,  but  it  was 
as  nothing  to  that  of  his  cicerone,  and  together  we  filled 
that  small  apartment.  My  heart  was  sad  within  me  to 
think  of  the  differences  between  now  and  then,  conjured 
up  by  that  little  room.  The  man  daily  weakening  towards 
his  end,  the  disappointing  posts  that  brought  not  the 
looked-for  remittance,  the  slender  circumstances  and 

27 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

the  faltering  frame,  and  now  this  arrogance  of  state  for 
the  honouring  of  Keats.  If  but  a  tithe  of  the  money  spent 
on  Editions  de  luxe,  illustrations,  medallions  and  the  like, 
had  been  spent  in  the  Poet's  life  on  the  amelioration  of 
those  days  of  stress,  God  only  knows  but  that  precious 
life  might  have  been  prolonged  for  the  amplification  of  its 
glory  of  song.  It  is  one  of  our  whimsical  paradoxes  that 
the  names  that  need  it  least  are  emblazoned  in  epitaphs 
of  brass  and  trumpeted  down  the  corridors  of  Time. 

One  day  I  felt  aweary  of  that  show  world  of  Rome, 
its  pageantries  of  priests,  its  mementoes  of  the  dusty 
Caesars,  speaking  in  their  marble  tones  from  pedestal  and 
piazza.  So  off  I  went  and  had  a  restful  noontide  by  the 
ashes  of  Keats.  The  early  Spring  had  laid  a  coverlet  of 
violets  around  him,  and  here  and  there  the  gold  of  the 
daffodil  towered  over  the  purple  as  sentinel  eyes  of  Light. 
Then,  suddenly,  as  I  stood  there  leaning  upon  the  railings 
full  of  such  reverence  which  kept  measure  with  the 
echoes  of  Immortal  Song  ;  full  of  such  lines  as  : 

"  Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  bird  ; 
No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down  ;  " 

a  linnet  perched  on  the  railings  at  right  angles  to  me  and 
opened  its  soul  of  song.  Liquid  and  resonant,  it  seemed 
to  cleave  the  trouble  of  life  and  wing  its  way  into  the 
altitudes  of  the  Infinite. 


28 


IV 

VISIONS    OF   BEAUTY 

My  Heart's  Picture  Gallery.  Storage  of  Beauty.  A  Picture  of  St.  Patrick's  Ball, 
Dublin  Castle,  and  Hermione,  Duchess  of  Leinster.  Lady  Londonderry's 
Political  and  Social  Parties  at  Londonderry  House.  Consuelo,  Duchess  of 
Marlborough,  at  the  India  Office  Reception :  Maharajahs  encrusted  with 
Diamonds.  Princess  Pless  at  a  Ducal  Ball.  A  Small  Boy  with  a  Big  Bouquet : 
A  Floral  Episode :  I  present  Flowers  to  the  Empress  of  the  French :  Her 
Beauty  framed  by  an  Alpine  Snow-world :  I  have  Tea  with  Her  Majesty  at 
Farnborough.  A  Riverside  Day  with  Mary  Anderson.  The  Tones  that 
sing  themselves  adown  the  Corridors  of  Time. 

AS  in  some  lordly  castle  you  may  find,  far  from  the 
halls  of  banquet  and  state,  some  little  shrine 
wherein  from  the  bright,  blinding  light  of  day  mid  the  dim 
shadows  there  is  ease  and  rest,  so  in  my  heart  I  have  a 
noble  gallery.  Therein  are  splendid  pictures  of  the  Past : 
crownings  and  burials  of  kings ;  the  lowering  to  their 
slumber  of  immortal  dust ;  the  features  of  fair  women, 
and  the  dear  fond  faces  of  dead  friends  shrined  in  the 
silent  alcoves  of  my  heart. 

When  you  have  wearied  me,  oh  World,  and  sickened 
me  with  sordid  things,  to  these  sweet  pictures  silently  I 
pass,  and  all  my  spirit  is  surrendered  to  the  respite  of  my 
dreams  ! 

You  ask  me  for  the  loveliest  Visions  I  have  seen.  Come 
with  me  to  my  gallery.  I  have  many  immortal  dreams 

29 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

of  loveliness.  No  poet  could  ask  more  than  these.  No 
painter,  though  he  painted  with  the  colourings  bequeathed 
him  by  the  gods,  could  ever  catch  the  exquisite  light  and 
shade,  the  undefinable  half-tones  as  we  have  seen  who 
looked  upon  their  loveliness. 

Let  me  try  and  picture  them  in  my  poor  words,  so 
that,  long  afterwards  when  I  am  at  rest,  the  world  shall 
have  them,  and  be  glad  for  beauty  that  has  been,  and  its 
remembrance  that  remains. 

St.  Patrick's  ball  is  dancing  itself  away  in  Dublin 
Castle.  A  scene  of  great  beauty,  for  beauty  is  a  thing 
which  easily  finds  expression  in  Irish  womanhood,  and  on 
every  side  you  saw  types  of  loveliness  which  scarcely 
any  other  capital  could  offer.  Radiant,  supreme,  and 
enthralling  amongst  them  all — Hermione,  Duchess  of 
Leinster. 

I  was  standing  at  the  far  end  of  the  noble  hall,  when 
Lord  Walter  FitzGerald  came  up  to  me,  and  said :  "  If 
you  want  to  see  the  loveliest  sight  you've  ever  seen,  come 
here."  We  threaded  our  way  through  that  crowded 
scene  to  the  upper  end,  where  there  were  broad  high 
settees,  and  there,  draped  in  the  richest  of  emerald  velvet, 
silhouetted  against  the  crimson  of  the  settee,  sat  the 
Duchess,  and  no  man  could  ever  look  on  anything  more 
entrancing.  Everything  around  was,  as  it  were,  set  to 
accentuate  that  picture,  and  music  on  an  undulating  wing 
added  its  poetry  to  steep  the  senses.  Like  those  lovely 
daughters  of  Consuelo,  Duchess  of  Manchester,  the  ex- 
quisite woman  upon  whom  I  looked  had  that  brilliance 
of  colouring  which  was  a  foreboding  to  her  friends.  It 
was  as  if  Death  said  :  "  Take  ye  I  must,  but  I  will  make 
ye  lovelier  till  I  come  !  "  And  the  end  alas !  was  not 
long  in  coming  for  that  beautiful  woman. 

30 


Visions  of  Beauty 

The  second  picture  is  one  of  memorable  magnificence. 
Crowds  of  people  are  ascending  the  grand  staircase  at 
Londonderry  House.  At  its  summit  stands  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  and  queenly  women  of  her  day.  Moreover 
she  knew  how  to  set  her  beauty,  and  the  radiance  of  her 
tiara  was  in  accordance  with  an  individuality  that  was  regal. 
Born  of  the  historic  Talbots,  daughter  of  the  Premier 
Earldom  of  England,  her  appearance  in  every  way  denoted 
birth,  whereto  was  added  a  magnetism  of  charm  and  no 
little  intellect,  which  endeared  her  to  countless  friends 
and  established  her  influence  in  the  social  world.  To  be 
received  by  Lady  Londonderry  was  in  itself  a  sufficient 
passport  to  all  that  was  exclusive,  and  no  one  who  partook 
of  the  generous  hospitality  of  the  late  Lord  Londonderry 
and  his  beautiful  wife  can  ever  forget  the  galaxy  of 
all  that  was  great  in  brain  or  birth  grouped  in  those 
pictured  galleries.  Lord  Londonderry  was  himself  one 
of  the  most  modest  of  men,  and  deprecated  the 
prominence  into  which  his  position  and  wealth  had 
thrust  him.  He  begged  for  better  men  to  occupy  his 
place,  but  his  colleagues  estimated  his  worth  more 
surely  than  did  he,  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  his 
quiet,  dispassionate  judgment  was  of  inestimable  ad- 
vantage to  the  Party.  And  anything  left  undone  by 
him  was  effected  by  the  salon  of  his  wife  as  a  political 
centre  and  stimulus  for  more  binding  Unionism  to 
Members  of  both  Houses. 

Nor  was  it  only  political  unity  which  the  able  suzerainty 
of  Lady  Londonderry  assayed.  Her  brain,  beauty  and 
position  did  much  for  the  social  organism  of  her  day. 
To  be  seen  in  her  salon  was  an  amply  sufficient  hall-mark : 
to  be  excluded  from  her  recognition,  especially  where 
such  people  had  precedence  of  their  own,  left  them  as 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

comparative  outsiders  in    what  was  the  real  London  of 
the  decade. 

To  me  it  is  unforgettable  the  ease  and  dignity  shown 
by  Lord  and  Lady  Londonderry  under  most  difficult  and 
perhaps  unprecedented  circumstances.  They  had  just 
resigned  the  Vice-Royalty  of  Ireland,  and  accepted  an 
invitation  from  their  successors,  Lord  and  Lady  Zetland, 
to  stay  at  the  Vice-Regal  Lodge.  This  writer  was  privi- 
leged to  receive  no  less  than  five  invitations  in  one  week 
from  His  Excellency,  including  functions  at  the  Castle 
and  at  the  Lodge.  In  the  procession  at  Dublin  Castle  it 
was  memorable  to  mark  the  ease  with  which  Lady  London- 
derry took  the  second  place  where  lately  she  had  reigned 
supreme. 

There  is  another  picture  whereat  I  sometimes  stand 
and  look.  It  is  a  picture  of  what  London  will  probably 
never  see  again.  In  a  few  days  King  Edward  would  be 
crowned,  and  the  capital  was  full  of  Indian  Princes  and 
great  people  from  the  width  of  the  world.  There  was  a 
special  reception  for  the  Princes  of  India.  The  ample 
courtyard  of  the  India  Office  was  canopied  in  silk,  and 
it  was  a  scene  of  utmost  magnificence.  Never  had  I 
gazed  upon  such  jewels,  and  all  of  London's  beauty  was 
there.  The  Maharajahs  seemed  encrusted  in  diamonds ; 
there  were  rubies  and  emeralds  beyond  exaggerations  of 
dream.  It  was  an  unforgettable  spectacle. 

There,  quite  simple  in  a  frock  of  white,  her  swan- 
like  neck  roped  with  adorable  pearls,  was  Consuelo,  Duchess 
of  Marlborough,  a  picture  which  riveted  the  eye.  It 
is  not  that  she  was  so  beautiful,  for,  compared  with  the 
greatest  beauties  of  the  day,  she  certainly  was  not ;  but 
there  was  an  inexpressible,  undefinable  soupfon  of  youth 
and  gladness  and  sadness  and  human  vivacity  about  her 

32 


ELIZABETH    DUCHESS    OF    MANCHESTER    AND    HER    SON 
THE    FIFTH    DUKE. 

By  kind  permission  of  Messrs.  Davis  Bros.,  CheUm. 

[To/acepaye  33. 


Visions  of  Beauty 

that  was  singular  and  exceptional  and  altogether  unwonted. 
Charm  is  in  itself  a  beauty,  and  much  of  beauty  is  un- 
beautiful  without  it. 

The  scene  changes  to  that  of  a  great  ducal  house. 
Many  Royalties  were  amongst  the  guests ;  one  simply 
looked  at  them,  but  all  eyes  seemed  riveted  on  a  vision 
of  girlhood  rarely  seen.  No  pen  can  record  what  Princess 
Pless  was  in  those  days.  I  do  not  say  that  it  was  her  real 
character,  for  sometimes  a  woman's  expression  is  para- 
doxically a  conundrum  of  her  nature.  She  looked  the 
incarnation  of  youth  and  joy  and  innocence.  She  had 
the  fairness  of  some  daughter  of  the  gods,  and  the  sparkle 
as  of  some  joy  incarnate.  She  was  of  the  kind  as  if  she 
stepped  from  among  the  myrtles  of  the  Sabine  Plains  where 
Horace  sang,  or  in  the  gardens  where  Proserpine  was 
gathering  roses  and  armfuls  of  lilies. 

Ah  !  here  I  see  you  stand  :  no  wonder  that  you  loiter 
at  this  picture  as  you  pass  along  my  gallery.  Was  anything 
more  lovely  in  the  landscapes  we  have  seen  ?  Right  over 
us,  around  us  and  beyond,  the  impenetrable  silence  of 
the  Alps — snow  that  yields  nothing  to  the  ardours  of 
noon  ;  and  here  upon  the  luscious  swards,  appropriately  lit 
by  the  imperial  purples  of  crocus,  anemone  and  hyacinth, 
a  small  boy  stands,  with  a  large  bouquet  in  his  hands. 
To  this  day  I  feel  the  palpitations  of  my  heart  as  I  recall 
my  advance  to  the  great  travelling  carriage,  where  I 
was  met  by  the  beautiful  smile  of  Eugenie,  Empress  of  the 
French,  and  tendered  to  her  those  Alpine  blossoms  which 
my  small  hands  had  gathered.  The  Empress  was  then 
in  the  very  full  bloom  of  radiant  beauty.  But  it  was  not 
her  beauty  alone  which  captivated  men.  She  had  charm, 
which  is  woman's  most  potent  weapon.  I  can  remember 
the  folds  of  the  graceful  apple-green  veil,  drooping  at 

H3  3 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

the  back  and  partially  pendant  around,  her  beautiful  head 
framed  by  a  parasol,  coloured  as  from  peach  blossom,  with 
stripes  of  green  to  match.  My  French  seemed  to  interest 
her,  for  her  smiles  again  broke  out ;  but  it  was  evidently 
not  one  of  my  bad  days,  for  there  was  no  torture  in  her 
face. 

Years  afterwards,  when  I  was  honoured  by  an  invita- 
tion from  Her  Majesty,  and  was  privileged  to  have  a 
the-a-the  tea  with  her  at  Farnborough,  I  recalled  the 
incident,  and  she  well  remembered  it,  for  the  passing  over 
the  Alps  with  the  Emperor  was  so  secretly  arranged,  that 
it  was  a  surprise  to  them  that  anyone  should  know.  My 
parents  had  taken  us  all  from  the  heat  of  Cadenabbia  to 
the  cool  of  that  Alpine  pass,  and  I  think  it  was  some 
old  French  Count,  connected  with  the  entourage  of  the 
Emperor,  who  told  us  of  the  possibility  of  Their  Majesties 
passing,  and  thus  that  little  floral  episode.  What  I  have 
always  thought  so  sweet  on  the  part  of  the  Empress  was 
that,  as  her  carriage  passed  up  the  ascent,  she  herself  called 
out  to  have  it  stopped  when  she  saw  the  small  boy  with 
the  big  bouquet. 

The  next  picture  is  one  of  very  opposite  surroundings. 
It  brings  one  back  to  a  time  when  Spring  was  decorating 
the  banks  of  the  Thames,  and  the  trees  were  busied  in  the 
turning  over  of  a  new  leaf.  A  friend,  who  was  paving  the 
way  for  an  ultimate  proposal,  came  to  me  and  said  :  "  I'm 
taking  her  for  a  long  day  up  the  river,  and  I  can't  well 
do  so  alone ;  will  you  come  ?  "  "  But  where  do  /  come 
in  whilst  you  are  mooning  about  ?  "  said  I.  "  Oh,  I've 
arranged  for  you  all  right :  you'll  row  Mary  Anderson 
about,  and  if  you're  not  in  Heaven,  you  deserve  to  be  in 
the  other  place."  You  will  believe  that  the  invitation 
was  accepted  with  alacrity. 

34 


Visions  of  Beauty 

The  quartette  of  us  started  from  Paddington  at  the 
godless  hour  of  ten.  How  I  caught  that  train,  the  Lord 
only  knows.  We  were  not  back  till  past  midnight.  I 
shall  never  forget  that  river-side  day. 

It  needs  no  telling  that  Mary  Anderson  was  a  rarity 
of  loveliness.  In  my  gallery  I  see  her  reclining  in  that 
languorous  punt,  her  dainty  white  dress  outlined  against 
the  crimson  of  the  cushions.  Around  her  the  pink  and 
white  of  the  promise;  ^f  May  and  the  willows  that  forbore 
to  weep.  The  swollen  flood  rippled  against  the  impeding 
banks  and  life  was  full  of  flowerets  and  song.  She  that 
reclined  there  was  no  mere  beauty ;  when  the  marvel  of 
that  was  discounted,  it  was  her  intellect  that  was  her  potent 
charm.  Never  was  soul  enshrined  in  so  exquisite  a  setting. 
We  who  think  ourselves  mentally  equipped  if  we  know  by 
rote  a  few  of  the  gems  of  literature — bless  you,  she  had 
Shakespeare  by  heart,  the  exquisite  utterance  of  all  Time 
was  music  that  she  could  recall  at  will.  Sometimes  as 
our  shallop  drifted  downwards  with  the  stream,  a  sunray, 
disentangled  from  the  willows,  mixed  itself  with  her  smile, 
and  uplit  the  tragedies  of  song  whereon  she  touched.  For 
even  as  our  bark  drifted,  now  through  shadow  and  now 
through  the  gleams  of  light,  so  coursed  that  wonderful 
memory  through  the  lights  and  shades  of  song,  and  often- 
times we  had  on  board  Juliet  listening  to  the  nightingale 
and  lark,  the  pleadings  of  Portia,  and  Desdemona's  desolate 
despair.  The  river,  that  has  dreamed  awhile  'neath 
Oxford,  and  wound  its  way  past  the  great  metropolis  of  the 
world,  to  mix  its  music  with  the  main,  has  many  a  memory, 
but  none  more  exquisite  than  this. 

As  we  floated  downward  with  the  tide,  the  river  moved 
to  the  music  of  languorous  lyric.  We  floated  'twixt  the 
banks  where  Shelley  sang.  His  memory  seemed  to  cling 

35  3* 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

amid  the  flowers,  and  overhead  his  skylark  sang.  As  we 
drifted  down  the  waters  I  rehearsed  that  immortal  Ode. 
Could  anything  be  more  exquisite  than 

"  We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not : 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought." 

When  Shelley  was  at  Marlow  he  was  a  marvel  to  the 
yokels.  They  could  not  comprehend  the  strange,  slim  man, 
who  gave  speech  to  none,  and  passed  his  days  adrift  upon  the 
river,  or  moored  to  banks,  the  haunt  of  violet  and  daffodil. 
He  named  his  boat  the  Vaga.  It  was  painted  on  the 
prow.  Whereto  was  added  by  some  rustic  wit  the  one 
word  "  bond."  He  did  not  know,  nor  any  of  his  fellows, 
that,  "  Wherever  skylark  soars,  there  sings  the  soul  of 
Shelley." 

Since  that  bright  day,  what  crowds  of  mundane  men 
I've  passed  !  The  world  is  full  of  the  clang  of  the  money 
makers.  Our  futile  Parliaments  sicken  in  the  stagnation 
of  debate.  Few  are  the  voices  that  overtop  the  clamour 
of  the  day ;  small  wonder  that  those  of  us  that  love  our 
land  have  lasting  reverence  for  the  tones  that  sing  them- 
selves adown  the  corridors  of  Time. 


THE   LONDON    OF   YESTERDAY 

A  People  betrayed  by  its  Pleasures.  The  Sin-Harvest  of  the  Cinema.  The 
Blandishments  of  Bribe.  Her  Grace  of  Devonshire  avenges  Her  Grace  of 
Manchester.  Sydney,  Duchess  of  Manchester.  Sir  Arthur  Blackwood's  Efforts 
to  reclaim  England's  Gilded  Youth.  Crumbs  of  Consolation  in  the  House 
of  Rice.  The  Three  Graces — Three  Sisters  who  married  Dukes.  The  Beautiful 
Life  of  the  Baroness  Burdett-Coutts.  Position's  Succouring  of  Talent.  My 
last  Talk  with  the  late  Duke  of  Albany.  Mrs.  Ronalds  as  a  Hostess.  A  Warning 
from  the  Grand  Cross  of  the  Bath :  "  For  God's  sake,  don't  touch  the  Cham- 
pagne in  this  House."  Lemonade  at  a  Dance :  "  The  Popping  of  the  Cork 
initiates  the  Popping  of  the  Question."  Sir  Lewis  Morris  on  the  Rush  and  what 
came  of  it.  Swinburne  delivers  me  a  Facer.  Lady  Ross's  Opinion  of  Sir  Lewis. 
The  Pitfalls  of  Precedence.  Blue  Blood  in  a  Black  Face  :  Crimson  Carpet  for 
a  Nigger  King. 

A  NATION'S  character  is  proclaimed  in  its  pleasures. 
No  statesman,  having  regard  for  the  progress  of  his 
country,  can  afford  to  be  indifferent  to  its  pastimes. 
They  are  the  excrescence  of  its  soul,  and,  good  or  bad, 
betray  its  inherence.  All  work  and  no  play  makes  a  dull 
boy  of  Jack.  That,  compared  with  the  sunny  South,  we 
take  our  pleasures  sadly  is  a  truism,  but  the  fault  is  not 
altogether  ours,  for  we  grow  aweary  of  the  wetting  rains 
that  damp  alike  our  spirits  and  our  finery.  The  elements 
are  against  that  Merrie  England  of  the  Tudors,  and  racing 
and  football  apart  there  are  signs  of  deterioration,  eloquent 
to  the  thinker  in  the  latter  day  pursuits  of  men — the 
Picture  God  and  the  God  of  Gold.  This  rage  for  the 

37 

6093G 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

cinema  is  an  undiluted  evil.  Towards  the  close  of  last 
century  Irving  and  Tree  expended  their  thousands  in  a 
direction  which  elevated  the  people.  Those  splendid 
spectacular  shows  at  the  Lyceum  and  Haymarket,  crowded 
in  pit  and  gallery  as  well  as  in  boxes  and  in  stalls,  were  an 
ennobling  force  in  the  pleasures  of  the  people.  Those 
influences  have  passed,  and  the  imagination  of  the  masses 
is  fed  by  assassination  portrayed  by  cinema  and  everything 
intended  to  interest  rather  than  to  elevate. 

Throughout  the  annals  of  Time  it  would  be  difficult 
to  chronicle  changes  more  momentous  than  occurred 
during  the  reign  of  Victoria.  When  that  great  Queen 
ascended  the  Throne,  the  social  system  was,  comparatively 
speaking,  a  diminutive  affair.  Families  of  equal  position 
knew  each  other,  and  strangers  were  not  readily  admitted 
within  their  gates.  Entertainments  were  infinitely  less 
costly,  for  bribery  was  a  thing  unknown  in  the  netting 
of  your  guests.  But  the  enormous  mercantile  millennium, 
which  transformed  Lancashire  operators  into  baronets, 
shook  the  foundations  of  most  that  was  exclusive.  This 
was  the  beginning  of  the  Blandishments  of  Bribe. 

When  a  certain  M.P.  and  his  bride,  and  also  his  "  step- 
daughter," descended  upon  Mayfair,  they  brought  with 
them  no  commanding  popularity  or  position  from  Edin- 
burgh ;  but  in  the  decadence  of  London  society  that  was 
no  especial  discomforture.  At  their  concerts  they  gave 
you  the  Opera  in  miniature,  and  you  could  hear  a  Diva  for 
nothing.  For  reasons  best  known  to  herself,  a  certain 
great  Lady  was  one  of  the  guests,  and,  this  being  well 
trumpeted,  a  number  of  smart  women,  equally  exclu- 
sive, considered  it  expedient  to  follow  so  commanding  a 
lead.  There  are  wheels  within  wheels  in  all  such  happen- 
ings. It  is  not  seldom  that  the  god-forsaken  mole  is  the 

38 


The  London  of  Yesterday 

humble  instrument  whereby  the  lower  earth  is  elevated 
into  the  atmosphere  of  the  sun. 

That  hostess  was  the  incarnation  of  good  nature,  but 
the  good  nature  was  as  uneducated  as  was  her  mind,  and 
her  faux  pas  originated  much  of  the  interest  she  inspired. 
Her  husband  was  obviously  out  of  place  amid  the  splendid 
surroundings  arranged  for  him  by  his  wife  and  child.  He 
looked  the  retiring  and  retired  banker  rather  than  the 
opulent  brewer,  bearing  himself  with  the  modesty  and 
dignity  which  explained  the  respect  in  which  he  was  held. 
A  man  of  strong  convictions,  he  was  scarcely  at  home  with 
those  who  had  none.  Yet  he  showed  no  sign  of  boredom, 
even  when  much  of  the  talk  at  his  table,  as  I  so  often 
have  heard,  must  have  been  utterly  beyond  his  com- 
prehension. 

This  observer  of  events  has  seen  many  strange  and 
unaccountable  occurrences,  but  nothing  stranger  or  more 
unprecedented  than  the  social  rise  of  the  "  step-daughter." 
She  was  a  girl  of  singularly  charming  manners,  without 
the  slightest  trace  or  suspicion  of  intellectual  predomi- 
nance. In  process  of  time  she  succeeds  to  a  magnificent 
inheritance.  It  is  only  fools  who  find  in  the  possession 
of  money  the  reason  of  success.  There  are  at  this  moment 
thousands  of  extremely  wealthy  women  in  England  who 
are  still  nobodies  and  never  will  be  more  than  nothing. 
In  the  days  of  King  Edward,  society  was  not  exclusive, 
and  gold  was  a  passport.  The  Duchess  of  Devonshire, 
a  potent  influence,  had  herself  been  saved  from  oblivion 
by  the  timeliness  of  her  second  marriage.  Much  of  the 
social  brilliance  of  the  day  was  due  to  her  initiative,  and 
I  can  imagine  no  prouder  moment  for  any  woman  than 
was  hers  as  she  stood  on  the  summit  of  the  staircase  at 
Devonshire  House,  looking  down  upon  those  who  had  lately 

39 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

ignored  'her.  With  a  smile  and  courtesy  which  were  her 
own,  Her  Grace  of  Manchester  was  avenged  by  Her  Grace 
of  Devonshire. 

I  first  met  the  Duchess  of  Devonshire  when  she  was 
Her  Grace  of  Manchester.  This  was  at  a  concert  in 
Cadogan  Place.  I  sat  next  her,  and  was  introduced  by 
that  inimitable  hostess,  Mrs.  Ronalds.  At  that  time  one 
of  the  Duchess's  most  intimate  friends  was  Mrs.  Spencer 
Cooper,  who  had  not  so  long  before  lost  her  beautiful 
Norfolk  home  when  her  husband  disposed  of  Sandringham 
as  a  country  residence  for  the  then  Prince  of  Wales.  I 
had  for  years  known  Mrs.  Spencer  Cooper,  and  often 
subsequently  had  met  her  with  the  Duchess  at  Nice  and  in 
London.  But  Louise,  Duchess,  was  not  a  personage  to 
cultivate  unless  you  were  desirous  of  making  the  pastime 
of  gaming  a  profession. 

Never  were  three  women,  ducalized  by  the  identical 
coronet,  so  dissimilar  as  were  those  three  Graces  of  Man- 
chester, whom  I  have  known — Louise  Duchess,  Consuelo 
Duchess,  and  Sydney  Duchess.  I  remember  as  a  small  boy 
being  taken  on  several  occasions  by  my  father  to  tea 
with  the  last  named.  She  was  the  widow  of  the  sixth 
Duke,  mother  of  Lady  Kintore  and  Mrs.  Hobart  Hampden, 
and  wife  of  Sir  Arthur  Stephenson  Blackwood.  The 
Duchess  and  her  husband  were  more  than  religiously 
inclined,  and  "  Beauty  Blackwood,"  as  he  was  called, 
having  at  one  time  been  the  handsomest  man  in  the 
Guards,  inculcated  a  scheme  for  the  regeneration  of  the 
gilded  youth  of  England.  If  you  look  around  on  the 
elderly  men  of  to-day,  you  will  see  Sir  Arthur's  efforts 
were  not  as  successful  as  was  his  official  life  at  the  Post 
Office.  He  could  sort  letters  better  than  souls,  and  the 
official  stamp  came  more  readily  to  him  than  the  spiritual 

40 


The  London  of  Yesterday 

The  scheme  was,  as  I  know  to  my  cost,  that  peers  and 
important  people  with  big  houses,  footmen  and  such  like, 
should  issue  cards  which  at  first  sight  seemed  a  summons 
to  a  dance  but  unfortunately  were  not.  It  was  to  meet 
Sir  Arthur,  and  hear  him  talk.  The  proceedings  were 
redeemed  by  a  supper.  I  particularly  remember  one  of 
such  functions  in  Hereford  Gardens,  where  our  host  was 
a  late  Lord  Dynevor.  Crews  were  in  full  training  for  the 
pending  Oxford  and  Cambridge  boat  race,  and  Sir 
Arthur  utilized  the  occasion  by  drawing  analogies  from 
spiritual  and  physical  sustenance.  It  was  subsequently 
remarked  that  the  subject  was  appropriate  in  the  House 
of  Rice,  the  patronymic  of  the  Dynevors. 

There  is  yet  another  Duchess  of  Manchester  of  an 
earlier  decade  whom  I  should  like  to  mention.  Alas, 
that  I  knew  her  not,  for  her  beauty  was  equalled  only 
by  her  wit ;  but  she  was  much  too  previous  to  me  for 
personal  knowledge.  She  lives,  however,  in  the  beautiful 
picture  which  I  am  enabled  to  reproduce  through  the 
courtesy  of  the  well-known  connoisseurs  of  art  of  this 
kind,  Messrs.  Davis  Brothers,  King's  Road,  Chelsea.  It 
depicts  Her  Grace  and  little  son,  Lord  Mandeville, 
afterwards  fifth  Duke,  who  had  the  misfortune  to  marry 
the  third  instead  of  the  eldest  daughter  of  the  last  Duke 
but  one  of  Gordon.  Had  he  married  the  eldest  daughter 
the  Montagus  would  be  now  in  possession  of  Gordon 
Castle  and  other  considerable  properties  at  present 
owned  by  the  Duke  of  Richmond.  When  Colonel 
Lennox  married  Lady  Charlotte  Gordon,  he  was  com- 
paratively a  poor  man  without  expectations.  Lady 
Charlotte  was  little  better,  as  her  brother  was  alive 
and  was  still  a  young  man.  Yet  Colonel  Lennox 
lived  to  become  Duke  of  Richmond,  Lennox  and 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

d'Aubigny,  and  she  to  inherit  the  ducal  property  left  by 
her  childless  brother,  the  last  Duke  of  Gordon.  It  is 
worth  notice,  as  I  can  recall  no  other  instance  of  three 
sisters  being  Duchesses  as  were  the  daughters  of  the  fourth 
Duke  of  Gordon  ;  one,  as  I  have  mentioned,  being  Duchess 
of  Richmond,  another  Duchess  of  Bedford,  and  the  third 
Duchess  of  Manchester.  As  they  were  all  beautiful  women 
it  was  certainly  a  latterday  instance  of  "  The  Three 
Graces,"  with  all  apologies  to  those  sister  goddesses, 
Euphrosyne,  Aglaia  and  Thalia,  so  graphically  outlined  by 
the  Roman  historian  Pausanias.  The  sixth  Duke  of  Rich- 
mond, a  member  of  Disraelian  administrations,  had  sufficient 
interest  to  add  to  his  honours  yet  a  fourth  Dukedom,  when 
he  was  created  Duke  of  Gordon,  notwithstanding  that 
the  male  line  of  the  Huntly  Gordons  was  by  no  means 
extinct  as  represented  by  the  Marquesses  of  Huntly.  I 
quite  agree  with  the  late  Lord  Queensberry,  grandfather 
of  the  present  peer,  when  he  most  strongly  denounced 
to  me  at  a  the-a-tete  dinner  I  had  with  him  in  Albemarle 
Street,  the  unconscionable  habit  of  reviving  a  title  in  a 
collateral  line  when  there  exists  an  heir  male  in  direct 
representation.  He,  as  head  of  the  Douglases,  was  himself  a 
sufferer,  inasmuch  as  the  Duke  of  Buccleuch  (who  inherited 
Douglas  blood  only  through  a  female)  is  also  Duke  of 
Queensberry.  The  Duchess,  whose  picture  I  give,  was 
Elizabeth,  daughter  of  Sir  James  Dashwood,  second 
baronet  of  Northbrook  and  Kirtlington,  and  she  married 
the  fourth  Duke  of  Manchester  in  1762. 

Louise,  Duchess  of  Devonshire,  the  wife  of  two  Dukes, 
has  only  one  such  exceptional  matrimonial  success  as  a 
precedent,  namely,  one  of  the  beautiful  Miss  Gunnings, 
who  was  successively  Duchess  of  Hamilton,  and  of  Argyll. 
But,  whereas  her  Grace  of  Devonshire  was  the  mother 

42 


The  London  of  Yesterday 

of  but  one  Duke,  the  Duchess  of  Hamilton  and  Brandon, 
and  of  Argyll,  was  the  mother  of  no  less  than  four.  This 
fact  renders  her  as  equally  distinctive  amongst  women  as 
did  her  marvellous  beauty  and  the  charm  which  capti- 
vated her  generation.  The  beautiful  Miss  Gunnings  were 
household  words  and  toasts  to  a  generation  long  past. 
The  other  sister  became  Lady  Coventry. 

The  influence  and  position  of  another  great  moneyed 
heiress,  Miss  Burdett-Coutts,  was  not  due  either  to  cards 
or  to  the  subservience  of  -royalty.  She  won  her  way  to 
widespread  influence  and  affection  by  her  purity  of 
character,  regal  generosity  and  affection  for  all  things 
artistic  and  beautiful.  You  may  say  that  she  had  the 
inestimable  advantages  of  birth.  She  was  co-heiress  to 
that  ancient  barony  of  Latymer,  which  her  nephew  so 
well  adorns.  She  possessed  a  commanding  personal  merit 
for  which  you  vainly  search  in  other  heiresses  of  our 
day. 

The  prominence  and  influence  of  the  Baroness  were  but 
stepping-stones  to  the  good  it  was  her  province  to  achieve. 
The  prominence  and  influence  of  the  others  have  been 
stepping-stones  but  to  the  importance  of  themselves  in 
that  portion  of  society  which  interprets  benevolence  as  a 
species  of  self-bestowal.  It  is  incontestable  that  had  the 
Baroness  achieved  nothing  else  than  the  encouragement 
and  assistance  of  Henry  Irving,  she  would  have  done  work 
sufficient  for  the  gratitude  of  her  time.  But  where  is  the 
man  of  art,  of  letters,  or  of  science,  whom  these  idle 
others  have  encouraged  ?  This  banqueting  of  kings — 
what  is  it  save  to  those  who  by  their  position  can  live  up 
to  this  exceptional  meal  ?  Royalty  can  always  feed — but 
what  about  genius  ?  What  about  the  overwhelming 
amount  of  talent  lost  to  us  for  want  of  timely  recognition  ? 

43 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

In  olden  days  the  great  were  the  patrons  of  posterity, 
inasmuch  as  they  handed  on  to  Time  the  intellect  they 
fostered,  and  myself  I  consider  that  the  incessant  anxieties, 
restraints  and  responsibilities  of  exalted  position  or  exces- 
sive wealth  have  their  only  great  compensation  in  the 
comparative  ease  whereby  one  man  can  uplift  his  fellows. 
This  is  not  the  place  for  it,  but  perhaps  later  I  shall  tell 
of  the  last  conversation  I  ever  had  with  the  late  Duke  of 
Albany,  when  this  very  question  was  discussed  for  over 
half  an  hour  in  a  crowded  ball-room. 

Frances,  Lady  Waldegrave,  and  Lady  Holland  were  not 
much  in  themselves  so  far  as  antecedents  go,  but  deficiency 
in  birth  weighed  little  with  the  intelligence  and  intellect 
with  which  their  charm  surrounded  them.  Is  it  that 
the  women  of  to-day  are  mostly  devoid  of  charm  that, 
with  all  their  wealth,  they  can  gather  round  them  little  but 
coroneted  nonentities  ?  It  is  indeed  a  sorry  truth  that 
this  England  of  ours,  which  can  produce  most  necessities, 
and  whose  manufacturers  have  initiated  her  predominance, 
utterly  fails  in  the  making  of  the  born  hostess.  We  have 
no  salons  here,  as  they  have  in  Paris  and  in  Rome.  We 
have  women  of  rank  and  blood  and  beauty,  but  not  the 
inspired  hostess.  Lady  Palmerston's  success,  like  King 
Edward's,  lay  in  the  appropriate  word  to  each  which  evinced 
remembrance  and  solicitude.  It  is  comforting  to  know 
that  your  efforts  are  familiar  to  the  great  lady  who  welcomes 
you.  There  are  none  so  modest  who  have  not  that  streak 
of  vanity  which  is  indeed  the  kinsmanship  of  the  great. 
But  your  ordinary  hostess  has  no  head  for  this,  and  thus 
she  misses  those  endearing  arts  which  otherwise  would 
stablish  her  influence. 

Looking  back  on  my  life  and  recalling  the  many  hostesses 
I  have  seen,  that  kind,  beautiful  woman  who  greeted  you 

44 


MRS.    RONALDS. 


The  London  of  Yesterday 

of  a  Sunday  in  Cadogan  Place  stands  out  enduringly  as  one 
of  the  most  perfect  hostesses  of  the  day.  Her  grades  of  smile 
were  not  regulated  by  the  gradations  of  rank,  nor  were  the 
interests  of  any  ignored  or  forgotten  in  that  social  crowd. 
The  big  houses  were  oft-times  empty  in  spite  of  all  that  was 
offered  as  bribes  to  enter,  but  Mrs.  Ronalds,  though 
she  gave  little  but  her  welcome  and  the  exquisite  music 
selected  by  her  cultivated  discernment,  had  never  an  un- 
occupied chair  on  those  wonderful  Sunday  afternoons. 
Duchesses  and  royalties  of  the  highest  rank  and  all  that  was 
supreme  in  talent  were  welcome  there  with  a  charm  which 
inspired  affection  from  the  countless  friends  she  possessed. 
There  is  now  in  London  no  such  exclusive  afternoon 
as  was  hers,  and  in  this  the  London  of  to-day  is  irreparably 
poorer.  The  last  time  I  saw  her  she  was  a  guest  in 
my  house.  A  lover  of  art,  she  deplored  the  lowering 
of  standards,  and  almost  her  last  words  to  me  were : 
"  Let  us  live  up  to  all  we  know  and  love."  I  little 
then  thought,  as  I  saw  her  go,  that  it  was  for  the  long 
au  revoir. 

But  there  were  many  houses  whose  owners  were  noble 
in  all  things  but  in  the  art  of  entertaining.  The  things  they 
sometimes  gave  you  were  terrible,  and  your  nauseated 
palate  had  to  be  satisfied  with  the  distinction  of  having 
been  invited. 

This  writer  can  give  you  an  amusing  instance  of  this. 
His  height  was  an  advantage  to  him  in  going  out,  as  by  it, 
he  more  readily  secured  his  hat  and  cloak  when  passing  on  to 
some  other  function.  Behind  him  on  one  occasion  was  a 
little,  elderly,  distinguished-looking  man,  wearing  the 
broad  ribbon  of  the  Bath.  I  courteously  turned  to  him  as 
he  struggled  in  the  rear,  and  said  :  "  If  you  give  me  your 
ticket,  I'll  hand  it  in  with  mine."  He  did  so,  and  I  gave 

45 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

him  his  hat,  cloak  and  stick,  thereby  saving  him  a  possible 
ten  minutes  of  squeezure.  Arriving  at  the  next  house,  and 
proceeding  to  leave  my  gibus  and  cloak,  who  should  come 
in  but  my  little  friend.  He  forthwith  came  up  to  me  and 
said :  "  Sir,  a  little  time  back  you  did  me  a  great  service. 
I  shall  now  do  you  a  good  turn  and  to-morrow  you'll  thank 
Heaven  for  me !  "  He  then  drew  me  aside,  and  earnestly 
said  :  "  For  God's  sake,  don't  touch  the  champagne  in  this 
house !  " 

A  great  lady  of  economic  proclivities  thought  that  she 
would  hark  back  to  pre-Adamite  habits,  and  forthwith 
issued  cards  for  a  small  dance  at  her  imposing  house.  The 
beverage  was  lemonade.  It  is  not  recorded  that  there 
were  any  acceptances  of  subsequent  invitations.  A  dear 
old  moneyed  bachelor,  whose  age  was  rapidly  making  him 
almost  safe,  said  to  me  as  he  walked  away  :  "  My  dear  boy, 
you  can't  be  expected  to  propose  to  a  girl  on  lemonade ; 
it  would  be  all  fizzle  and  froth  !  "  Which  engendered  the 
response  :  "  The  popping  of  the  cork  initiates  the  popping 
of  the  question." 

There  was  an  old  friend  of  mine  who  was  one  of  the 
most  thoughtful  and  convincible  samplers  of  champagne  I 
ever  met.  He  was  influenced  by  it  only  to  the  extent  of 
an  oasis  of  brilliance  amid  his  desert  of  dryness.  When  I 
was  away  abroad  I  heard  of  his  marriage.  Years  afterwards, 
staying  with  him,  I  was  surprised  to  see  the  champagne  pass 
him.  After  the  ladies  had  gone  I  asked  him  about  this, 
when,  drawing  me  aside,  he  said  :  "  Never  again  ;  it  was 
after  a  bottle  of  the  boy  that  I  proposed  !  " 

Of  afternoon  functions  who,  that  were  privileged  to 
attend,  can  forget  Lady  Jersey  at  Osterley  Park ;  her  Grace 
of  Northumberland  at  Syon  House ;  Lady  Salisbury  at 
Hatfield ;  Lady  Holland  and  afterwards  Lady  Ilchester  at 

46 


The  London  of  Yesterday 

Holland  House ;  Lady  Bute  at  St.  John's  Lodge ;  and  in 
the  far  off  days  Frances,  Lady  Waldegrave,  at  Strawberry 
Hill  ?  In  extreme  youth  I  was  once  there,  as  I  was  many 
and  many  a  time  afterwards  in  the  days  of  Herbert  de 
Stern,  subsequently  Lord  Michelham. 

A  most  amusing  episode  took  place  as  I  was  proceeding 
to  one  of  these  functions.  I  was  humbly  going  down  by 
rail  and  was  in  a  compartment  by  myself.  As  the  train 
was  slowly  leaving  an  intermediate  station,  I  was  conscious 
of  a  wild  rush  on  the  platform,  the  door  was  flung  open, 
and  two  porters  projected  Sir  Lewis  Morris  into  the 
carriage.  The  poet  sat  in  the  corner  and  gasped.  He  was 
much  overwrought  with  his  rush.  I  placed  a  newspaper 
well  up  between  us,  so  that  he  should  not  see,  and  com- 
menced intoning  a  quotation  from  Morris's  "  Ode  of 
Life,"  which  contains  the  fine  line : 

"  The  onward  march  of  Man  seems  spent." 

Morris,  who  like  most  poets  was  scarcely  devoid  of 
vanity,  simply  bubbled  with  delight.  He  made  every 
mortal  effort  to  get  round  that  paper,  surcharged  with 
curiosity,  to  see  who  it  was  that  knew  him  by  heart.  I 
afterwards  reaped  to  the  full  by  this.  It  was  one  of  the 
best  advertisements  my  youth  ever  had,  for,  during 
that  afternoon  at  Strawberry  Hill,  Morris,  to  advertise 
himself,  told  the  story  everywhere,  and  I  was  caught  up 
upon  the  Parnassian  pinions. 

Amongst  great  literary  people  you  could  not  mention 
Lewis  Morris's  name  without  being  rolled  over  and  over 
and  being  jumped  upon.  His  "  Epic  of  Hades  "  and  other 
works  had  considerable  sale.  This  fact  only  embittered 
his  critics.  I  remember  one  time  in  Swinburne's  hearing 

47 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

diffidently  venturing  to  stand  up  for  Sir  Lewis,  quoting  a 
passage  : 

"  And  see,  the  lovers  go, 

With  lingering  steps  and  slow, 

Over  all  the  world  together,  all  in  all, 

Over  all  the  world  !     Great  empires  fall ; 

The  onward  march  of  Man  seems  spent  ; 

The  nations  rot  in  dull  content ; 

The  blight  of  war,  a  bitter  flood, 

From  continent  to  continent, 

Surges  in  waves  of  blood  ; 

The  light  of  knowledge  sinks,  the  fire  of  thought  burns  low  ; 

There  seems  scant  thought  of  God  ;  but  yet 

One  power  there  is  men  ne'er  forget, 

And  still  through  every  land  beneath  the  skies, 

Rapt,  careless,  looking  in  each  other's  eyes, 

With  lingering  steps  and  slow, 

The  lovers  go." 

Swinburne,  who  had  listened  in  a  petulant  fashion, 
suddenly  burst  out  :  "  You  only  praise  that  man  as 
swagger  ;  you'd  like  to  be  the  only  poet  that  does  so." 

As  touching  Sir  Lewis  Morris's  vanity,  I  recall  the 
following.  Having  tea  with  Lady  Ross,  she  was  in  the  act 
of  telling  me  that  Mr.  Morris  had  lately  dined  with  her, 
when  the  poet  was  announced.  He  advanced  into  the 
room,  but,  before  shaking  hands  with  her,  fumbled  in  his 
pockets  as  might  a  process-server  searching  for  a  writ.  We 
all  were  apprehensive.  When  he  had  found  the  missing 
document  he  approached,  holding  it  towards  her  as  he  said  : 
"  I  can  never  forget  the  dinner  you  gave  me,  Lady  Ross. 
I  have  brought  you  a  little  ode  I  have  composed."  After 
he  had  gone,  Lady  Ross  was  very  indignant,  as  she  was  sure, 
she  said,  that  any  one  of  her  entrees  expressed  more  thought 
in  the  preparation  than  all  his  odes. 

A  few  pages  ago  we  mentioned  Lord  Queensberry,  and 
I  should  like  to  record  another  dinner-table  denouncement 

48 


The  London  of  Yesterday 

of  his.  I  very  often  dined  with  him  at  the  Albemarle 
Hotel,  where  he  was  accustomed  to  put  up  during  his 
sojournings  in  London.  A  man  unusually  well  informed 
and  interesting,  he  might  easily  have  made  himself  as 
instructive  in  many  directions  other  than  those  sporting 
subjects  on  which  he  will  always  remain  an  authority. 

It  is  almost  unprecedented  that  a  Scotsman  so  high  in 
the  peerage  as  is  a  Marquess,  and  especially  a  man,  head  of 
the  historic  Douglases,  should  be  without  a  minor  title 
which  gives  him  a  seat  in  the  House  of  Lords.  Failing  this 
minor  title,  a  man  of  such  rank  and  position  could  hardly 
fail  to  be  elected  by  his  fellow  Scotch  peers  as  a  repre- 
sentative of  the  Scotch  peerage  at  Westminster.  But  more 
was  thought  of  religion  in  those  days  than  in  the  spiritual 
decadence  of  these,  and  Lord  Queensberry's  utterances  as 
an  atheist  indefinitely  debarred  him  from  the  franchise  of 
his  fellows.  Consequently  he  had  no  seat  in  the  Upper 
House,  whilst  on  account  of  his  Scotch  peerage  he  was 
debarred  from  seeking  election  for  a  seat  in  the  Commons. 

Queensberry  was  very  sore  about  the  political  insignifi- 
cance which  belittled  his  historic  name.  I  was  dining  with 
him  when  the  evening  paper  announced  to  us  that  Lord 
Rosebery,  then  Prime  Minister,  had  recommended  Lord 
Drumlanrig,  Queensberry's  son,  who  was  private  secretary 
to  the  Premier,  for  a  barony  of  the  United  Kingdom.  This 
conferred  upon  the  son  a  voice  in  the  legislature  denied  to 
the  father,  and  you  can  imagine  the  denouncements  that 
mixed  themselves  with  that  dinner ! 

"  It  will  be  of  no  use  to  the  family,  however,"  added 
Queensberry,  "  for  Drumlanrig  will  never  succeed  me  in  the 
Scotch  peerages."  I  asked  him  why,  and  he  replied  that 
the  name  Drumlanrig  carried  with  it  nothing  but  the 
destiny  of  disaster,  instancing  the  terrible  story  of  the  son 

49  4 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

and  heir  of  a  predecessor.  This  Lord  Drumlanrig  was 
engaged  to  a  beautiful  girl  to  whom  he  was  devoted,  but 
was  forced  for  family  reasons  into  a  marriage  with  an  heiress. 
On  their  wedding  tour  they  stopped  for  dejeuner  at  a  little 
inn  on  an  Alpine  pass,  when  on  entering  the  bridegroom 
came  face  to  face  with  the  girl  he  loved.  He  turned  back, 
entered  his  travelling  coach  and  shot  himself.  It  was  but 
a  little  time  after  that  Queensberry's  son,  whilst  shooting 
with  the  Duke  of  Buccleuch,  was  found  shot  on  the  moors. 
How  that  catastrophe  was  occasioned  is  to  this  day  a 
mystery.  No  one  was  less  surprised  than  was  the  poor 
father,  and  I  recalled  his  ominous  utterance  at  that 
remembered  dinner. 

On  the  death  of  this  son  Lord  Queensberry  insisted  that 
Lord  Percy  Sholto  Douglas,  who  thus  became  his  heir, 
should  discard  the  ill-fated  name  of  Drumlanrig  and  take 
the  lower  title  of  Douglas  of  Hawick,  which  he  did,  and 
eventually  became  ninth  Marquess  and  father  of  the 
present  peer.  At  one  time  I  played  bridge  every  night 
with  him.  He  was  a  most  kindly  and  unassuming  man. 

Some  people  wondered  why  a  man,  already  a  viscount, 
should  receive  a  barony,  but  they  were  very  ignorant, 
because  a  peer's  eldest  son  does  not  hold  precedence  by 
his  grade  of  title  but  by  the  date  of  his  father's  principal 
honour.  Had  the  Duke  of  Somerset  a  son,  that  son  would 
be  Lord  Seymour,  as,  curious  to  say,  though  other  dukes 
have  numbers  of  minor  tides,  the  dukedom  of  Somerset, 
which  is  second  only  to  that  of  Norfolk  on  the  ducal  roll, 
has  nothing  but  a  barony  and  a  baronetcy  ;  consequently 
the  son  is  only  Baron  Seymour,  whereas  the  eldest  sons 
of  the  Dukes  of  'Leeds,  Portland  and  Devonshire  are 
respectively  Marquesses  of  Carmarthen,  Tavistock  and 
Hartington,  and  Lord  Seymour  would  walk  in  to  dinner 

50 


The  London  of  Yesterday 

before  any  of  them,  though  he  is  but  a  baron  to  their 
marquisates.  You  would  be  surprised  if  I  told  you  of 
the  well-bred  women  who  have  made  mistakes  in  this  matter. 
The  laws  of  precedence  are  perpetual  perplexities  to  the 
knowledgeable,  but  the  average  hostess  is  better  endowed 
with  beauty  than  with  brain,  and  many  are  her  misleadings. 
Dear  Mrs.  Liddell,  wife  of  the  Dean  of  Christ  Church  of 
my  time,  would  always  insist  on  sending  in  Sir  George 
Arthur  or  some  other  handy  baronet  before  Reginald 
Adderley,  Wallace  Cochrane-Baillie,  now  Lord  Lamington, 
or  Tom  Legh,  Lord  Newton,  despite  the  fact  that  they 
were  Honorables.  A  common  mistake  also  is  regarding 
the  unfortunate  Right  Honorables,  who  also  precede 
baronets.  If  you  are  an  entertainer  on  a  large  scale,  you 
need  a  wonderful  head  to  avoid  making  people  crusty. 
I've  seen  a  dinner  spoilt  by  the  chagrin  of  a  couple  of  elderly 
females. 

My  recollections  of  the  London  of  yesterday  would 
fill  a  volume  as  large  as  this.  Shall  I  ever  forget  those 
diminutive  crowded  stairs,  when  one  advanced  one  step 
to  the  minute,  for  the  abbreviated  smile  of  a  hostess 
overwhelmed  with  reception  ?  On  one  occasion,  a  very 
small  house  in  Upper  Berkeley  Street  had,  to  my  intense 
astonishment,  the  crimson  carpet  of  expected  royalty  across 
the  pavement.  Faintly  fluttered  with  excitement  I  pro- 
ceeded into  the  house,  and  mounting  the  stairs  beheld  a 
great  fat  nigger  in  a  gilt  chair.  This  was  an  Afric  sovereign, 
and,  would  you  believe  it,  some  idiotic  women  were  kissing 
his  hand  and  curtseying  away  like  mad  ?  Oh,  we  Britons 
are  an  extraordinary  people,  and  what  will  not  the  average 
woman  do  to  get  royalty  within  her  portals  ?  It  does  not 
matter  so  much  if  the  face  and  character  be  black  so  long 
as  the  blood  be  blue  ! 

5i  4* 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

And  now  that  old  London  has  altogether  passed — the 
greatness  and  the  grandeur  of  it — alas,  its  littleness  remains ! 
For  even  though  the  houses  still  stand,  they  are  no  longer 
the  same.  They  have  lost  their  memories  whereon  to  feed. 
Alas  and  alas,  for  the  passing  landmarks !  As  I  write 
Norfolk  House  is  to  be  let ;  the  emptiness  of  Grosvenor 
House  has  but  the  shadows  of  brilliant  hostesses  whereon 
to  muse  ;  the  very  gates  of  Devonshire  House  have  been 
uprooted,  as  are  the  traditions  for  which  they  stood.  New 
men  inhabit  old  mansions,  and  it  is  marvellous  how  much 
their  influence  disfigures  them.  The  pride  of  the  past 
had  little  ostentation.  True  nobility  needs  no  trumpeting 
any  more  than  good  wine  its  bush.  Upraised  humanity 
may  indeed  be  socially  uplifted,  but  it  carries  with  it  the 
stain  of  the  soil  wherefrom  it  sprang. 


VI 

QUEEN  VICTORIA'S  MASTER  OF  THE  CEREMONIES, 
GENERAL  SIR  FRANCIS  SEYMOUR,  BART.,  K.C.B. 

Queen  Victoria  as  Woman  and  Sovereign.  Her  Majesty's  Letters,  their  Force 
and  Character.  England's  Indebtedness  to  King  Leopold  and  Baron  Stockmar. 
The  Sanctity  of  Confidence.  Notoriety  and  its  Scant  Survivals.  Description 
of  Kensington  Palace :  Lady  Seymour's  Artistic  Thursdays.  An  Illustrated 
Almanach  de  Gotba.  "  What  Price  the  Dye  ?  "  Letters  from  the  Crimea. 
The  Prince  Consort's  Life  before  his  Marriage.  Her  Majesty  revisits  the 
Home  of  Her  Childhood.  Sir  Francis's  Death.  An  Avalanche  of  Flowers. 

THESE  pages  are  not  written  for  you  who  perhaps 
have  lived  some  of  your  days  under  the  rule  of 
this  great  Queen.  They  are  written  for  your  sons  and 
grandsons  who  may  read  me  more  than  you.  I  do  not 
say  this  with  reference  to  merits  of  mine.  I  am  above 
enlarging  on  a  negligible  quality.  I  say  it  because  there 
will  then  be  the  added  interest  of  years,  and  especially 
will  there  be  some  possible  value  in  contemporaneous 
criticism.  They  will  delight  their  busy  minds  with 
contrasting  the  dictums  of  the  day  with  the  verdicts  of 
the  morrow.  And  if  they  cannot  give  me  praise,  they 
will  find  their  joy  in  according  me  censure. 

I  shall  never  believe  that  in  any  age  whatsoever  the 
character  and  career  of  the  great  woman  who  ruled  us  for 
sixty  years  will  miss  posterity's  meed  of  praise.  She 
possessed  exactly  the  qualities  which  suited  her  times. 
She  had  essentially  the  courage  of  her  convictions  and 
the  mental  endowments  which  enforce  them.  She  had  also 

53 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

that  amount  of  motherliness  which  mellowed  the  outlines 
of  sovereignty  ;  and  her  capacity  for  work  was  evidenced 
by  her  laborious  correspondence.  And  those  very  short- 
comings for  which  she  was  mostly  blamed  were  indeed 
the  drawbacks  which  endeared  her  to  her  subjects.  As 
instance  of  this  one  may  safely  say  that,  when,  owing  to 
her  widowed  life,  many  were  discontented  at  the  Sovereign's 
infrequent  appearances  in  public,  there  were  millions  of 
others  who  thought  more  of  the  woman  than  of  the  Queen, 
and  loved  her  for  the  sorrow  thus  sanctified  by  seclusion. 
Many  are  the  pictures  of  her  which  come  to  memory  ; 
pictures  that  have  the  half-tones  and  tenderness  of  minia- 
tures. We  see  her,  the  little  Princess,  whose  future  may 
be  so  great,  and  just  as  likely  so  little.  Her  succession  in 
those  days  was  never  assured.  King  William  had  children 
of  his  own.  Who  knew  that  they  would  die  ?  But  the 
wise  reckoned  on  her  as  a  possibility,  and  not  the  least  of 
these  were  those  who  educated  her  Royal  Highness.  From 
the  very  first,  she  was  fashioned  to  be  a  Ruler  and  a  Queen. 
She  was  never  formed  to  be  a  figure-head.  She  must  know 
what  she  was  about,  and  she  must  be  an  influence  in  the 
doing  of  it.  Her  mother  has  the  name  of  being  no  great 
wit.  No  one  has  much  to  say  for  the  Duchess  of  Kent. 
It  seems  enough  for  her  that  she  was  mother  to  the  Queen 
Regnant,  but  indeed  this  is  not  all.  Had  she  been  the 
brainless  woman  some  depict,  how  about  the  wonderful 
prescience  which  arranged  her  daughter's  education  for 
the  part  she  so  adroitly  played  as  the  Constitutional  Ruler 
of  these  realms  ?  And  played  it  so  well,  that,  though  only 
a  woman,  she  was  a  feature  and  a  factor,  howbeit  that  her 
Ministers  included  the  keenest  intellects  of  the  day.  How 
many  women  are  there,  I  should  like  to  know,  who  would 
care  to  confront  Peel  or  Disraeli  or  Gladstone  ? 

54 


GENERAL    SIR    FRANCIS    SEYMOUR.    BART..    K.C.B. 


\_To  face  p:ige  54. 


General  Sir  Francis  Seymour 

By  the  magic  of  her  personality  she  was  often  a  match 
for  these.  Listen  to  what  this  very  young  woman  has  to 
say  regarding  Peel's  determination  to  deprive  the  Queen 
of  the  Ladies  of  her  Household  on  the  fall  of  Lord  Mel- 
bourne's administration.  Writing  to  Leopold,  King  of 
the  Belgians,  she  says :  "  My  dear  Uncle,  I  begin  to  think 
you  have  forgotten  me,  and  you  will  think  I  have  forgotten 
you,  but  I  am  certain  you  will  have  guessed  the  cause  of 
my  silence.  How  much  has  taken  place  since  Monday 
the  yth  to  yesterday  the  I3th.  You  will  have  easily 
imagined  how  dreadful  the  resignation  of  my  Government 
— and  particularly  of  that  truly  inestimable  and  excellent 
man,  Lord  Melbourne — was  for  me,  and  you  will  have  felt 
for  me  !  What  I  suffered  I  cannot  describe  !  To  have 
to  take  people  whom  I  should  have  no  confidence  in  ... 
was  most  painful  and  disagreeable  ;  but  I  felt  I  must  do  it, 
and  made  up  my  mind  to  it — nobly  advised  and  supported 
by  Lord  Melbourne,  whose  character  seems  to  me  still 
more  perfect  and  noble  since  I  have  gone  through  all  this. 

"  I  sent  for  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  who  referred  me 
to  Peel,  whom  I  accordingly  saw. 

"  Everything  fair  and  just  I  assented  to,  even  to  having 
Lord  Lyndhurst  as  Chancellor,  and  Sir  H.  Hardinge  and 
Lord  Ellenborough  in  the  Cabinet ;  I  insisted  upon  the 
Duke  in  the  Foreign  Office,  instead  of  Lord  Aberdeen.  .  .  . 
All  this  I  granted,  as  also  to  give  up  all  the  Officers  of  State 
and  all  those  of  my  Household  who  are  in  Parliament. 

"  When  to  my  utter  astonishment  he  asked  me  to 
change  my  Ladies — my  principal  Ladies ! — this  I,  of  course, 
refused  ;  and  he  upon  this  resigned,  saying,  as  he  felt  he 
should  be  beat  the  very  first  night  upon  the  Speaker,  and 
having  to  begin  with  a  minority,  that  unless  he  had  this 
demonstration  of  my  confidence  he  could  not  go  on  ! 

55 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

"  You  will  easily  imagine  that  I  firmly  resisted  this 
attack  upon  my  power,  from  these  people  who  pride  them- 
selves upon  upholding  the  prerogative  !  I  acted  quite 
alone,  but  I  have  been,  and  shall  be,  supported  by  my 
country,  who  are  very  enthusiastic  about  it,  and  loudly 
cheered  me  on  going  to  Church  on  Sunday.  My  Govern- 
ment have  nobly  stood  by  me,  and  have  resumed  their 
posts,  strengthened  by  the  feelings  of  the  country." 

No  one  can  read  Queen  Victoria's  letters  without 
being  struck  by  two  things.  First  by  the  force  and  judg- 
ment of  their  writer,  and  secondly  by  the  debt  which  this 
nation  owes  to  the  Belgian  King  and  his  henchman  Baron 
Stockmar.  Nothing  which  these  two  prudent  and  far- 
sighted  men  could  do  for  the  well-being  of  that  young 
Queen  was  overlooked  by  them.  One  does  not  know 
which  is  the  greater  marvel,  that  the  young  Sovereign 
should  have  such  counsel  ever  at  hand,  or  that  the  Uncle 
should  have  had  one  so  ready  to  consider  and  follow  it. 

In  no  way  was  the  far-seeing  prescience  of  King  Leopold 
and  Baron  Stockmar  more  apparent  than  in  the  education 
of  Prince  Albert  and  in  the  choice  of  his  aide-de-camp. 
To  find  a  boy  scarcely  on  the  threshold  of  manhood,  and 
to  recognize  in  his  immaturity  those  gifts  of  rectitude, 
resolution  and  restraint,  which  are  necessities  in  the 
servitors  of  princes ;  to  recognize  these  and  to  requisition 
them  was  the  work  of  the  King  and  his  Minister,  and  this 
then  was  the  rise  of  Sir  Francis  Seymour,  Queen  Victoria's 
Master  of  the  Ceremonies,  for  years  the  trusted  friend  and 
companion  of  her  husband  his  Royal  Master.  Close 
upon  seventy  years  of  official  life  did  nothing  but  endorse 
the  initial  judgment  of  the  King ;  and  it  is  one  of  this 
writer's  greatest  privileges  that  he  had  long  years  of  Sir 
Francis's  friendship,  and  that,  in  the  intimacy  of  those 

56 


General  Sir  Francis  Seymour 

years,  he  himself  enjoyed  a  confidence  of  that  master  of 
diplomacy  to  the  enrichment  of  his  life  and  its  remem- 
brances. 

It  would  be  a  wrong  to  the  public,  who  so  generously 
read  these  pages,  to  withhold  anything  which  I  feel  per- 
mitted to  chronicle  of  a  life  so  charged  with  incident  and 
interest. 

It  is  one  of  this  writer's  great  misfortunes,  in  chronicling 
incidents  of  his  life,  that  so  much  of  it,  and  by  far  the  most 
important  part,  is  impossible  to  record.  Great  officials, 
politicians  and  diplomatists  do  not  speak  openly  with  one 
conceived  to  be  trustworthy  with  the  possibility  of  such 
sacrilege.  Therefore  many  a  valuable  thing  is  lost,  and 
in  this  writer's  case  much  that  is  readable  will  die  with 
him.  It  is  to  me  more  an  annoyance  than  I  can  name  that, 
just  as  one  feels  on  the  point  of  being  interesting,  the  re- 
membrance of  a  quiet  room  and  of  an  elderly  man  among 
his  Penates,  and  perhaps  the  form  itself  of  a  trusting  friend 
who  has  gone,  leaves  one  the  poorer  in  the  possibility  of 
speech.  Therefore  it  is  that  in  Sir  Francis's  instance,  as 
in  many  others,  I  can  give  but  little  proof  of  the  capacity 
of  his  brain  for  the  particular  work  to  which  his  life  was 
dedicated,  for  the  proof  of  them  affects  the  living  as  well  as 
the  dead.  Nevertheless,  the  impression  a  man  makes 
on  the  living  is  material  for  those  who  come  after,  and  I 
cannot  say  that  I  am  easily  impressed  in  the  absence  of  the 
unimpressionable  or  likely  to  take  as  gold  what  has  only 
the  name  of  notoriety,  and  it  is  no  small  pleasure  and  satis- 
faction to  find  that  gradually  the  men  that  through  my  life 
have  most  strongly  appealed  to  me  are  practically  those 
whom  history  more  resolutely  recognizes.  There  is  a  time 
in  summer  when  we  sit  beneath  the  glimmering  leaves  and 
swear  by  the  foliage  canopied  in  the  sun  ;  but  the  dead 

57 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

leaves  strewn  along  the  by-ways  of  life  are  scarcely  more 
in  number  than  they  who  a  time  ago  were  in  the  eyes  of 
all  men  and  possessed  the  transient  transfiguration  of 
notoriety.  How  Scripture  repeats  itself :  "  Many  are 
called,  but  few  are  chosen." 

You  must  remember  that  Seymour  was  in  the  Crimea 
bearding  death  with  the  enemy  before  I  was  born.  It  is 
only  of  those  after  years,  of  the  fullness  of  his  honours  and 
influence,  that  I  can  of  knowledge  speak.  But  even  so, 
it  makes  a  picture  vivid  in  colour  and  determinate  in  detail 
of  those  brilliant  days  towards  the  close  of  an  historic 
century.  They  were  rare  days  of  genius  and  of  talent. 
All  time  that  looks  back  will  render  homage  to  the  Victorian 
era.  The  wondrous  spontaneity  of  scientific  insight ;  the 
dawn-white  wings  of  poetry  ;  the  reverberating  eloquence 
of  statesmen  ;  the  tramp  of  progress  echoing  through 
the  land — these  were  the  gifts  of  those  Victorian  days. 

The  parents  of  Francis  Seymour  lived  in  Brussels,  and 
in  that  city  Francis  spent  his  earliest  years.  His  father 
and  mother  enjoyed  the  friendship  of  the  King,  and  in  that 
fact  the  boy  Francis  had  good  fortune  from  the  start. 
Stockmar  was  not  slow  to  notice  his  capacities,  and  selected 
him  to  be  the  aide-de-camp  and  companion  of  Albert, 
second  son  of  the  reigning  Duke  of  Saxe-Coburg.  He  was 
with  the  Prince  in  this  capacity  for  two  years  before  he 
accompanied  His  Royal  Highness  to  England  for  the  marriage 
of  the  Prince  with  England's  young  Queen.  Except  at 
such  intervals  when  he  was  pursuing  his  military  duties, 
and  during  his  participation  in  the  Crimean  campaign,  of 
which  I  am  able  to  publish  some  interesting  letters,  he 
remained  in  trusted  confidence  of  his  Royal  Master  until 
that  Prince's  death  in  1861.  That  untimely  event,  so  far 
from  severing  him  from  the  Royal  House,  only  the  more 

58 


General  Sir  Francis  Seymour 

cemented  the  bonds  of  affection  linking  him  with  the 
destinies  of  his  widowed  Sovereign,  and  he  was  ultimately 
appointed  Master  of  the  Ceremonies,  and  allotted  a  resi- 
dence in  Kensington  Palace.  Bridging  back  the  inter- 
vening years,  this  writer  will  endeavour  to  picture  for  you 
that  Palace  as  he  saw  it  in  those  brilliant  days  of  the 
Eighties. 

That  portion  of  Kensington  Palace  relegated  to  the 
Seymours  by  Queen  Victoria  was  formerly  a  royal  nursery 
in  days  prior  to  the  third  George.  It  possesses  a  noble 
oak  staircase,  and  the  reception  rooms  are  ample  in  size 
and  full  of  dignity.  Especially  noteworthy  are  the  beau- 
ties of  the  carved  lintels  and  fluted  mouldings,  the  elaborate 
cornices  and  the  delicate  festoons  of  fruit  and  flowers  on 
the  ceilings.  Lady  Seymour,  an  instinctive  artist,  was 
not  slow  in  embellishing  even  the  historic  brickwork  of 
the  exterior,  which  was  soon  but  fitfully  visible  through 
banksia  roses,  jasmine  and  Virginia  creeper.  The  rooms 
were  rich  with  Royal  souvenirs.  You  could  turn  nowhere 
without  seeing  signed  portraits,  and  not  of  least  interest 
were  early  etchings  drawn  by  the  Queen's  own  hand, 
showing  marvellous  force  and  vigour.  One  cabinet  was  of 
especial  interest,  for  it  contained  many  personal  mementos 
of  the  Queen  and  Prince  Consort.  The  career  of  Sir 
Francis  is  also  represented  in  many  a  treasure.  Here  are 
his  various  orders,  agleam  in  their  several  ribbons  and 
stars ;  the  medals  of  his  military  career  and  the  scarf 
pins  and  snuff  boxes  presented  to  him  by  the  Sovereigns 
of  many  lands.  In  the  corner  is  a  comforter  knitted  by 
Queen  Victoria,  and  the  golden  bowl  bestowed  by  her  on 
her  godchild  Victoria,  eldest  daughter  of  Sir  Francis. 

Lady  Seymour's  Thursday  afternoons  were  an  institu- 
tion of  the  London  of  the  day.  An  ardent  musician  and 

59 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

the  possessor  of  a  fine  voice,  she  was  magnetism  to  many 
a  master  of  the  art.  Adelina  Patti,  the  Abbe  Liszt, 
Antoinette  Sterling,  Wolff,  Hollman,  Madame  Albani, 
Christine  Nilsson,  and  many  other  artistic  celebrities  were 
often  to  be  met,  and  their  presence  contributed  a  soupfon 
of  bohemianism  rarer  in  those  days  than  in  these. 

The  library  was  a  favourite  room  of  mine.  The  walls, 
carpet,  and  even  the  fireside-tiles,  were  all  Pompeian  red, 
and  arching  round  the  windows  the  green  and  gold  of 
jasmine  gave  an  added  glory  of  colour.  The  walls  of  the 
General's  own  sitting-room  were  so  covered  with  Royal 
portraits  that  the  apartment  might  almost  be  said  to  be 
an  illustrated  Almanack  de  Gotba.  It  was  here  that  many 
a  time  this  writer  had  long  talks  with  Sir  Francis,  and  the 
pity  of  it  is,  as  one  must  again  deplore,  that  so  little  of 
those  confidences  can  be  retailed  to  the  world.  Seymour's 

m 

was  a  life  making  large  demands  on  discretion,  and  the 
trust  reposed  in  him  by  his  Sovereign  must  often  have 
been  a  burden ;  but  no  one  who  was  privileged  with  his 
friendship  was  ever  conscious  of  an  unguarded  expression. 
Sir  Francis  Seymour  had  the  making  of  a  good  diplomat. 
And  here  I  cannot  avoid  thinking  how  different  is  a  great 
mind  like  his  from  those  of  the  few  lawyers  you  meet 
in  what  is  really  best  in  London  life  (I  do  not  refer  to 
political  sets).  Your  lawyer  always  shows  you  that  he  is 
careful.  Your  born  diplomat  is  too  much  the  gentleman 
to  exhibit  his  distrust.  Your  lawyer  takes  all  he  can  of 
confidences,  and  tenders  you  his  reservations  in  exchange. 
Your  diplomat  is  too  kindly ;  be  you  his  friend,  he  will 
see  that  he  sends  you  not  empty  away.  Your  lawyer  may 
be  clever,  but  he  overreaches  himself,  and  is  himself  the 
sufferer,  for  I  am  not  alone  in  saying  that  I  have  never 
been  able,  even  if  I  willed  it,  to  give  him  of  my  best. 

60 


General  Sir  Francis  Seymour 

What  struck  one  most  on  seeing  Sir  Francis  Seymour 
was  his  extreme  quiet  of  mind  and  body.  He  stood  or 
sat  marvellously  erect,  a  physical  replica  of  the  rectitude 
of  his  mind.  To  those  who  believe  in  the  advantages  of 
heredity,  it  is  worth  mentioning  that  if  Sir  Francis  was 
the  quietest  and  stillest  of  men,  it  would  be  impossible 
to  meet  one  more  emotional  in  his  manner  than  is  his  son, 
the  present  Baronet.  Sir  Francis  was  the  very  soul  of 
repose,  and  in  the  many  instances  when  I  went  to  him  for 
advice  in  the  endeavour  to  add  to  my  knowledge  regarding 
those  intricacies  of  precedence  connected  with  foreign 
rank  and  royalty,  he  was  so  kindly  and  painstaking  in  his 
explanations  that  it  was  a  pleasure  to  be  with  him.  He 
was  often  vastly  entertained  at  my  instances  of  terrible 
blunders  made  in  the  marshalling  of  their  guests  by  even 
well-known  and  well-born  hostesses.  Some  of  these  stories 
he  would  retail  to  the  Queen,  and  he  told  me  that  Hei 
Majesty  was  especially  pleased  with  the  following,  and 
she  herself  repeated  it  to  the  Duke  of  Connaught  when 
he  entered  the  room.  At  a  dinner  party  to  which  the 
inimitable  Lord  Morris  was  bidden,  it  was  found  that 
through  some  oversight  a  husband  and  wife  were  seated 
together.  "It  is  very  difficult  to  separate  husband  and 
wife,"  said  the  hostess  to  the  witty  Judge.  "  Ah,  then," 
he  replied,  "  you  should  have  Sir  Francis  Jeune  for  your 
butler !  " 

For  future  generations  it  may  be  well  to  recall  that 
Sir  Francis  Jeune,  afterwards  Lord  St.  Helier,  was  Presi- 
dent of  the  Divorce  Court. 

Sir  Francis  Seymour  to  the  last  had  a  wonderful  figure. 
He  was  a  spare  man  who  never  made  much  of  himself. 
He  had  black  eyes  and  hair  which  to  the  last  was  absolutely 
raven,  and  this  without  aid  of  art.  He  was  very  proud  of 

61 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

this,  and  was  much  hurt  and  annoyed  when  at  a  regimental 
dinner  at  Limmers  Hotel  the  Duke  of  Connaught  asked 
him  what  price  the  dye. 

The  following  letter,  written  September  28,  1854^ 
gives  the  General's  experiences  of  the  battle  of  Balaclava. 
It  may  be  mentioned  that  his  life  was  saved  in  the  Crimea 
by  his  watch,  a  bullet  which  otherwise  had  proved  fatal 
being  arrested  by  his  timepiece.  On  hearing  this  the 
Prince  Consort  sent  him  out  a  beautiful  gold  watch,  now 
in  the  possession  of  Sir  Albert  Seymour. 

"  Balaclava  in  the  Crimea. 

"  September  28,  1854. 
"  MY  DEAREST  MAMMA, 

"  I  hope  you  received  a  few  hurried  lines  which 
I  wrote  at  the  door  of  the  tent  where  the  mails  were 
making  up — I  was  only  allowed  Jive  minutes — and  I  was 
sorry  to  hear  afterwards  that  the  mail  had  been  detained 
by  Lord  Raglan  for  two  days.  Before  this  reaches  you,  you 
will  have  read  the  public  dispatches  in  the  paper.  Lord 
Raglan  sent  home  his  nephew  Lord  Burghersh  with  them, 
for  which  service  he  will  have  his  expenses  paid,  ^500, 
and  one  step  in  the  Army.  I  have  reason  to  be  deeply 
grateful  to  God  for  my  escape  on  the  2Oth,  for  it  so  happened 
that  my  corps  was  more  exposed  than  almost  any  other  ; 
out  of  twenty  officers,  eleven  were  wounded,  and  of  the 
non-commissioned  officers  and  men  nearly  one-third. 
We  had  had  a  long  march  in  the  morning  and  were  much 
exhausted  by  the  heat  and  being  obliged  to  carry  our  great- 
coats, provisions,  etc.  We  marched  with  the  French 
troops  on  our  right.  At  half  past  twelve  o'clock  we  came 
in  sight  of  a  strong  position  covered  with  Russian  troops, 
strongly  entrenched.  Between  us  flowed  a  stream  called 

62 


General  Sir  Francis  Seymour 

the  Alma,  to  reach  which  we  had  to  pass  through  a  vineyard, 
the  vine  so  interlaced  and  the  ground  so  uneven  that  it 
was  very  difficult  to  pass.  The  Light  Division  moved  first ; 
after  they  were  engaged  our  division  moved  on  in  line, 
each  officer  leading  his  company.  In  passing  the  vine- 
yard we  were  exposed  to  a  fearful  fire  of  grape  without  the 
power  of  returning  it.  When  we  reached  the  stream  I 
jumped  in ;  it  was  fortunately  not  more  than  three  feet 
deep,  the  banks  were  high,  but  we  reached  the  other  side, 
where  we  were  under  shelter  and  where  we  ought  to  have 
remained  for  breathing  time,  but  not  a  moment  was  allowed 
us.  Dearest  Mamma,  you  know  how  nervous  I  am  and 
yet,  will  you  believe  me,  I  do  not  mention  it  to  boast,  but 
to  express  my  gratitude  to  God,  I  felt  as  cool  and  my  pulse 
moved  as  quietly  as  it  ever  did  in  my  life.  The  battle 
lasted  for  two  hours  and  fifty  minutes,  and  I  hear  that  the 
Russians  suffered  immensely  and  that  they  are  completely 
demoralized.  The  Duke  of  Cambridge,  I  know,  will  speak 
well  of  me  to  the  Queen,  and  should  my  life  be  spared 
I  am  in  hopes  that  this  campaign  will  be  a  good  thing  for 
my  family.  Good-bye,  you  darling  ;  please  give  my  best 
love  to  all.  We  shall  get  a  medal  for  this  battle,  and  perhaps 
I  may  manage  to  get  one  from  the  French  through  the 
Prince  de  Chimay." 

Written  September  28  after  Alma. 

The  following  letter,  dated  November  12,  1854,  alludes 
to  the  Battle  of  Sebastopol. 

"  Camp  before  Sebastopol. 
"  November  12,  1854. 
"  MY  DEAR  MRS.  BUNSEN, 

"  The  papers  will  have  announced  to  you  before 
this  can  reach  you  the  great  battle  which  took  place  on  the 

63 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

heights  behind  our  encampment  on  Sunday  last.  The 
victory  was  a  great  and  glorious  one  to  the  Allied  Army, 
but  I  believe  I  may  say  more  especially  so  to  the  British 
Army,  as  the  attack  was  made  on  our  position  and  the 
French  were  not  able  to  come  to  our  assistance  till  we 
had  succeeded,  at  a  fearful  sacrifice,  in  driving  them  back. 
The  poor  Guards  had  to  stand  the  brunt  of  the  greater  part 
of  the  Russian  Army.  I  will  not  enter  into  details,  these 
the  papers  and  Lord  Raglan's  dispatches  will  fully  describe, 
but  as  I  know  the  interest  you  and  yours  have  so  long  taken 
in  my  welfare  I  cannot  resist  sending  you  a  few  lines.  God 
has  again  mercifully  spared  my  life  ;  I  was  struck  by  a  ball 
in  my  left  hand  ;  I  am  unable  as  yet  to  use  it  and  at  times 
it  gives  me  much  pain,  but  it  has  not  been  seriously  injured 
and  I  trust  it  will  soon  be  quite  well.  My  namesake, 
Lt.-Colonel  Charles  Seymour,  was  killed  while  helping 
Sir  George  Cathcart,  who  was  also  wounded  and  has  since 
died.  I  was  able  to  send  off  a  few  lines  to  my  dear  Mamma 
to  calm  a  little  her  apprehensions.  I  was  afraid  that  she 
might  see  his  death  mentioned,  and  fancy  that  I  had  fallen 
in  action.  War,  dear  Mrs.  Bunsen,  is  a  fearful  thing,  and 
I  can  fully  understand  your  father's  horror  of  it.  I  never 
witnessed  such  a  sight  as  the  butchery  of  last  Sunday,  and 
I  fervently  pray  to  God  that  I  may  never  see  such  a  sight 
again.  It  is  supposed  that  the  Russians  must  have  lost 
15,000  on  that  occasion,  which  together  with  their  losses 
at  Alma,  in  the  trenches  and  in  Sebastopol  must  together 
amount  to  a  very  large  number.  I  hear,  too,  that  the 
troops  are  much  discouraged  and  hate  the  war  nearly  as 
much  as  English  soldiers  do,  so  I  hope  and  trust  that  we 
shall  succeed  in  our  great  undertaking.  I  am  indeed  proud 
of  our  men  ;  they  all  hate  the  work — officers  as  well  as  men — 
but  they  never  complain,  and  are  as  calm  in  action  as  they 

64 


HER    GRACE    THE    DUCHESS    OF    INVERNESS. 
(Wife  ot  the  Duke  of  Sussex.) 


[To  face  page  64. 


General  Sir  Francis  Seymour 

are  on  the  Horse  Guards  Parade.  The  Duke  of  Cambridge 
has  gone  on  board  ship  for  a  change,  but  will  return  to  us 
in  a  few  days.  He  has  wonderfully  escaped  untouched. 
Pray  remember  me  affectionately  to  your  husband,  who  is, 
I  hope,  quite  well.  I  hope  your  children  are  well.  Tell 
Mr.  Fritz  that  I  hope  he  will  not  forget  me.  I  shall  indeed 
be  a  happy  man  if  I  am  allowed  to  return  again  to  England. 
Providence  has  mercifully  preserved  me  amidst  so  many 
dangers  and  I  trust  that  He  will  permit  me  to  return  in 
safety.  And  now,  good-bye,  dear  Mrs.  Bunsen.  And 
believe  me, 

"  Yours  ever  truly, 

"  F.  SEYMOUR." 

The  following  interesting  letter  gives  us  more  than 
a  glimpse  of  those  terrible  times,  and  is  additionally  service- 
able in  emphasizing  the  difference  of  war  in  those  days 
as  contrasted  with  our  late  gigantic  Armageddon. 

"  The  Camp  before  Sebastopol, 

"Juneiyb,  1855. 
"  MY  DEAR  MRS.  BUNSEN, 

"I  do  not  think  I  ever  received  a  letter  with 
more  pleasure  than  I  did  the  two  very  interesting  ones 
which  you  wrote  to  me  on  the  5th  inst.  As  you  think  I  do 
not  say  enough  of  myself  in  my  letters  I  will  endeavour  in 
this  to  make  up  for  past  omissions. 

"  My  health  on  the  whole  is  very  good.  I  ought  to  feel 
deeply  grateful  that  my  life  has  been  preserved  when  so 
many  constitutions,  stronger  than  my  own,  have  broken 
down.  My  wound  has  long  since  ceased  to  trouble  me ; 
it  healed  very  well  when  the  intense  cold  disappeared  and 
has  hardly  left  a  mark. 

65  5 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

"  We  came  out  here  on  the  i6th  inst.,  a  fortnight  to-day. 
I  was  sorry  to  leave  my  little  hut,  my  pretty  views  and 
my  small  comforts  (a  London  servant  would  not  dignify 
them  by  that  name)  at  Balaclava,  but  an  attack  was 
contemplated  on  the  i8th  inst.,  and  the  Guards  were  sent 
for  accordingly.  We  all  felt  very  confident  of  success  that 
at  last  our  troubles  would  be  over  and  those  whose  lives 
were  spared  would  rest  that  night  in  Sebastopol.  On 
Sunday  the  ijth  our  preparations  were  made.  That 
evening  we  all  took  the  Sacrament  and  laid  down  to  rest 
early,  and  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  we  fell  into  our 
places  without  beat  of  drum  or  noise  of  any  kind. 

"The  papers  will,  long  before  this  reaches  you,  have 
given  an  account  of  what  took  place.  We,  the  Guards,  were 
in  reserve,  and  not  under  fire.  I  never  felt  so  depressed 
before  as  I  did  at  our  failure.  It  was  a  great  blunder  on 
the  part  of  our  chief.  Many,  many  gallant  lives  were  use- 
lessly wasted  and  nothing  could  exceed  the  bravery  of 
our  troops.  They  rushed  to  almost  certain  death  with  a 
cheer.  Poor  Lord  Raglan  never  got  over  it.  He  had  a 
slight  attack  of  the  prevailing  epidemic,  but  a  very  slight 
one,  but  his  mind  was  distressed.  He  never  got  over  it. 
His  death  was  a  quiet  and  easy  one.  Though  he  was  not  a 
good  General,  he  was  much  respected,  and  his  death  caused 
a  sad  gloom  over  our  camp.  I  heard  that  Felicier  shed 
tears  when  the  news  reached  him. 

"  Tell  Ernest  that  I  did  not  take  part  in  the  last  ex- 
pedition. I  should  so  much  have  enjoyed  the  change.  It 
was  so  very  successful  and  attended  without  any  great  loss, 
a  very  rare  occurrence  in  these  dreadful  times.  It  was  a 
great  comfort  to  us  when  we  extended  our  lines.  Never 
shall  I  forget  the  pleasure  of  my  first  ride  beyond  the 
narrow  limits  of  our  old  camp.  The  beauty  of  the  scenery, 

66 


General  Sir  Francis  Seymour 

the  fragrance  of  the  flowers,  after  the  horrors  of  the  camp 
where  we  had  been  imprisoned  for  so  many  weary  months. 
Lord  West  is  still  here  with  his  steam  yacht.  He  took  me 
one  day  for  forty  miles  along  the  coast,  passing  Prince 
WoronsofFs  Palace  and  some  beautiful  places  along  the 
coast  belonging  to  the  Russian  nobles.  I  keep  very  early 
hours  here  when  not  on  duty.  I  dine  in  the  middle  of  the 
day,  ride  afterwards  generally  towards  the  Monastery  of 
St.  George  on  the  seaside.  There  the  air  is  contrastingly 
fresh.  I  am  out  of  sight  and  sound  of  the  camps,  which 
I  assure  you  is  a  great  comfort. 

"  Do  not  imagine,  my  dear  Mrs.  Bunsen,  that  I  am  not 
most  anxious — oh,  if  you  knew  how  anxious — to  return. 
I  am  sick  of  the  fearful  scenes  I  have  witnessed  since  last 
I  saw  you.  I  have  nothing  to  gain  in  the  Service.  I 
have  military  rank.  I  have  gained — may  I  call  them — 
laurels.  At  least  I  have  been  complimented  on  what  I 
have  done.  It  is  properly  my  turn  to  go  home,  and  I 
hope  that  I  may  have  that  happiness  soon,  never,  I  trust, 
to  return  upon  a  similar  duty.  My  poor  Mother  is  almost 
broken-hearted  at  my  continued  absence.  My  return 
unfortunately  depends  upon  others,  and  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  the  Duke  of  Cambridge,  our  Colonel,  has  not  been 
quite  just  in  the  arrangements  about  foreign  service,  and  we 
have  in  consequence  remonstrated. 

"  The  tunic  has  not  reached  the  Guards.  I  hear  it  is 
the  essence  of  bad  taste.  I  sat  yesterday  for  my  portrait 
in  water  colours  in  a  drawing  ordered  by  the  Queen.  I  am 
doubtful  whether  you  would  recognize  it.  It  is  to  be 
engraved. 

"  Prince  Edward  returns  to  England  on  Tuesday  with 
the  remains  of  poor  Lord  Raglan.  Prince  Edward  is 
delighted  to  go  home.  I  envy  him  much.  Let  me  hear 

67  5* 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

from  you  whenever  you  have  time ;   it  is  such  a  blessing  to 
hear  from  those  one  likes. 

"  Yours  affectionately, 

"  F.  SEYMOUR." 

Sir  Francis,  with  a  modesty  which  was  one  of  his  dis- 
tinctive qualities,  is  silent  in  these  letters  concerning  many 
dangers  he  encountered.  On  one  occasion  he  was  laid  out 
as  dead,  having  been  struck  by  splinters  from  a  shell.  On 
the  off-chance  of  preserving  his  life  the  regimental  surgeon 
said :  "  Moisten  his  lips  with  brandy,"  whereon  the 
corpse  was  heard  to  utter  :  "  No  spirits,  I  beg  you." 
This  may  be  taken  as  an  excellent  instance  of  the  quietude 
of  manner  under  every  form  of  disconcerting  circumstance 
which  was  so  interesting  a  characteristic  of  his  life.  Even 
then,  mark  the  politeness  of  his  language,  its  conciseness 
and  its  brevity  :  "  No  spirits,  I  beg  you."  The  Crimean 
campaign  won  for  Captain  Seymour  his  Colonelcy  in  the 
Scots  Guards. 

We  are  indebted  to  the  kindness  of  his  only  surviving 
daughter,  Mrs.  Dighton  Probyn,  for  the  following  interest- 
ing letter,  which  depicts  the  daily  routine  with  the  late 
Prince  Consort  previous  to  the  marriage  of  His  Highness 
with  the  Queen  Regnant  of  England.  The  glimpse  he 
allows  into  the  courtly  doings  of  those  days  is  unique,  and  a 
considerable  addition  to  the  public  knowledge  of  the  early 
days  of  a  Prince  whose  influence  is  still  perceptible  in  the 
land  of  his  adoption. 

"  Hotel  Vere  del  Cocomaro, 

"  Florence, 
"  MY  DEAR  MAMMA,  .  "  Easter >  1839. 

"  I  received  a  visit  yesterday  from  the  Comte 
d'Espong  (I  believe  that  is  his  name),  whom  you  met  in 

68 


General  Sir  Francis  Seymour 

Brussels.  He  is  on  his  way  here  from  Constantinople, 
and  should  be,  if  he  starts  off  to-morrow,  the  bearer  of 
this  letter.  I  am  now  comfortably  settled,  and  as  every- 
thing relating  to  the  Prince  will  be  interesting  to  you,  I 
will  endeavour  to  give  you  a  complete  account  of  each  day's 
occupation. 

"  I  removed  on  the  Wednesday  after  my  arrival  from 
the  Hotel  Vere  del  Cocomaro,  where  the  Prince  has  taken 
a  suite  of  apartments.  I  breakfast  in  my  room  every 
morning,  generally  remaining  there  until  I  hear  what  the 
Prince  intends  doing.  Dine  at  the  early  hour  of  two 
o'clock.  At  three  o'clock  I  accompany  him  out  walking, 
usually  returning  about  five  o'clock,  when  the  Prince 
takes  a  music  lesson.  At  half  past  seven  we  have  tea,  and 
at  nine  o'clock  punctually  the  Prince  retires  to  bed,  and 
he  usually  gets  up  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

"  Wednesday  after  my  arrival  I  accompanied  the  Prince 
to  a  ball  at  the  Palazzo  Pitti,  the  residence  of  the  Grand 
Duke  of  Tuscany.  It  more  resembled  a  private  than  a 
Court  ball,  and  everybody  appeared  en  bourgeoisie,  and 
danced  on  carpets,  as  there  is  not,  I  have  been  told,  a 
wooden  floor  in  Tuscany. 

"  Thursday  I  went  to  the  UfHzi  in  the  morning  to  see 
the  Madonna.  I  met  but  few.  Saw  the  Grand  Duke 
and  his  family  walking  arm  in  arm  in  the  crowd,  appearing 
to  enjoy  the  scene  very  much,  dined  with  the  Prince  at 
Mr.  Fox's,  whom  you  knew  in  Brussels,  was  introduced  to 
Lady  Augusta,  whom  I  liked  very  much.  She  was  very 
kind  in  her  manner  to  me.  Friday  in  the  Corso  with  the 
Prince  and  afterwards  dined  with  the  Prince  de  Montford, 
better  known  as  Jerome  Buonaparte,  ex-King  of  Westphalia. 
He  does  not  much  resemble  Buonaparte  in  appearance  and 
was  considered  the  least  clever  of  his  family. 

69 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

"  Saturday  went  to  a  ball  with  Lady  Augusta  Fox  and 
danced  with  her  Ladyship.  The  Prince  danced  the  Cotil- 
lion with  Lady  Augusta  Fox,  which  lasted  until  five  o'clock 
in  the  morning. 

"  Monday  went  again  to  a  ball  at  the  Grand  Duke's 
and  danced  the  Cotillion,  which  always  begins  at  twelve 
o'clock,  with  Lady  Augusta  Fox,  and  lost  my  hat,  a  quite 
new  one,  which  I  bought  in  London.  I  got  laughed  at 
for  taking  a  new  one,  was  told  that  it  was  an  understood 
thing  that  hats  were  common  property  and  that  the  Grand 
Duke  had  lost  his  hat  that  season. 

"  Tuesday  went  to  the  Bal  Masque  with  the  Prince, 
supped  with  the  Grand  Duke  in  two  of  the  boxes  which 
were  fitted  up  for  the  occasion.  The  following  day  was 
Ash  Wednesday,  since  which  the  Prince  has  not  been  to 
any  party. 

"  I  like  His  Highness  very  much.  He  is  charming, 
gentleman-like  and  very  well-informed  and  very  kind  in 
his  manner  towards  me,  which  never  changes.  He  has 
grown  very  handsome  and  very  distinguished  in  his  appear- 
ance, and  is  talked  of  in  public  here  as  the  husband  of 
our  young  Queen.  I  accompany  him  everywhere,  but  the 
Baron  is  too  unwell  to  go  out,  and  I  cannot  stir  for  an 
instant  without  the  Prince  for  fear  of  being  wanted.  I  have 
in  consequence  not  been  able  to  see  any  of  the  interesting 
objects  of  art  in  Florence  except  the  Madonna  in  the 
Palazzo  Pitti  and  the  Uffizi  Gallery,  where  I  saw  the  cele- 
brated Venus  de  Medici  and  the  almost  as  beautiful  Venus 
of  Canova.  As  the  Baron  Stockmar  is  getting  better, 
I  hope  to  have  a  little  more  time  to  study  the  paintings 
and  statues  and  improve  my  taste  as  much  as  possible.  In 
the  meantime  I  have  bought  one  or  two  works  on  the 
subject  which  have  interested  me  much. 

70 


General  Sir  Francis  Seymour 

"  The  Baron  Stockmar  told  me  yesterday  that  he  had 
written  to  the  King  to  obtain  an  extension  of  leave  of 
absence  to  the  end  of  May,  that  the  Prince  intended  leaving 
Florence  for  home  about  the  nth  or  I2th  of  March,  where 
they  would  remain  about  fourteen  days,  and  from  thence 
proceed  to  Naples,  where  they  would  stay  until  the  end  of 
April  and  then  return  to  Coburg,  and  that  I  was  to  rejoin 
the  Prince  in  Paris  in  September. 

"  The  Baron  also  spoke  to  me  about  the  Prince  going 
to  Portugal  on  a  visit  to  his  cousin.  As  well  as  I  can 
understand  from  the  Baron  the  great  objection  to  my  re- 
maining with  the  Prince  is  the  supposed  difficulty  of  my 
obtaining  leave,  and  that  if  I  obtained  an  unattached 
Company  I  believe  I  would  be  permanently  attached  to 
His  Highness.  The  Baron  however  is  never  explicit.  The 
Prince  told  me  yesterday  that  the  Baron  had  written  to 
the  King  about  making  me  a  Chevalier  of  Malta,  as  it  would 
entitle  me  to  wear  a  very  handsome  scarlet  uniform  and 
they  would  probably  obtain  it  without  paying  the  usual 
fee,  which  is  about  £So.  The  Prince  told  me  that  they 
had  not  had  an  answer  from  Leopold.  I  am  afraid,  my  dear 
Mamma,  that  you  are  all  in  great  fuss  about  the  affairs  in 
Belgium.  The  Baron  appeared  to  think  that  the  Belgians 
will  not  be  allowed  to  fight. 

"  Give  my  love  to  all  the  family  and  believe  me  your 
most  affectionate  son. 

"  FRANCIS  SEYMOUR." 

The  Queen's  wedding  present  to  Sir  Francis  on  his 
marriage  to  Miss  Agnes  Wickham  was  a  Baronetcy.  Lady 
Seymour  was  tall  and  distinguished.  She  was  extremely 
handsome  and  her  smile  was  exceptionally  captivating. 
She  was  one  of  the  most  vivacious  women  I  have  ever  met. 

71 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

In  complete  opposition  to  the  characteristics  of  her  dis- 
tinguished husband,  she  was  the  soul  of  perpetual  motion. 
It  is  to  her  great  credit  that,  in  spite  of  the  demands  of  a 
brilliant  social  life,  she  never  neglected  her  reading,  and  had 
a  wonderfully  varied  amount  of  information  which,  though 
not  deep  or  profound,  made  her  additionally  interesting  as 
a  conversationalist.  But  what  is  there  that  has  not  its 
drawbacks  ?  And  that  very  vivacity  which  marked  her  as 
distinctive  from  the  ordinary  humdrum  of  social  life  per- 
mitted her  many  a  verbal  impetuosity  which  her  moments 
of  consideration  must  have  deplored.  The  discretion  of 
her  husband  was  not  a  quality  she  shared,  and  it  was  an  added 
misfortune  to  the  loss  of  Sir  Francis  that  she  did  not  retain 
in  the  same  measure  the  countenance  of  the  Court, 
nor  even  the  residence  in  the  Palace  so  usually  allowed 
to  the  widow.  It  is  indeed  good  fortune  for  Royalty 
to  secure  not  only  the  discretion  of  its  entourage  but 
the  reticence  also  of  all  who  surround  this  especial 
service. 

In  the  lonely  aloofness  of  her  sovereignty,  the  ageing 
Queen  had  devotion  of  an  especial  kind  in  Ponsonby  and 
Seymour.  Both  knew  her  days  of  summer ;  each  shared 
her  winterhood.  Nor  was  she  without  gratitude.  By 
every  possible  means  she  marked  her  favour  for  her  Master  of 
the  Ceremonies  and  his  beautiful  wife.  There  were  frequent 
"  sleep  and  dine  "  visits  to  Windsor,  and  the  latter's  stories 
were  often  of  interest  to  the  Queen.  Lady  Seymour  was 
keenly  alive  to  humour,  hardly  less  so  when  it  was  pointed 
against  herself.  I  remember  once  we  had  a  great  argu- 
ment concerning  a  point  of  manners  in  which  I  asserted 
that  she  was  wrong ;  to  which  she  retorted,  "  Remember 
that  -I  am  a  Wickham,  and  remember  my  family  motto." 
"  Yes,  one  remembers  the  Wickham  motto  '  Manners 

72 


LADY    SEYMOUR. 


[To  face  page  72. 


General  Sir  Francis  Seymour 

makyth  man,'  but  it  does  not  state  that  *  Manners  makyth 


woman.' 


During  the  last  illness  of  Sir  Francis  the  Queen  came  to 
Kensington  Palace  to  see  him.  What  thoughts  must  have 
been  hers  as  she  entered  the  scene  of  her  own  childhood  to 
bid  mortal  farewell  to  this  last  link  between  herself  and  the 
life  of  her  adored  husband !  As  shown  in  the  Queen's 
letter,  which  I  am  enabled  to  give,  Her  Majesty,  whatever 
her  forebodings,  had  little  thought  that  the  end  was  so  near. 
This  letter,  not  hitherto  published,  shows  that  if  Her 
Majesty  considered  the  welfare  of  her  servitors  in  life,  she 
had  tender  memories  for  them  in  death.  It  is  in  the 
Queen's  own  handwriting,  and  you  will  remark  the  excellence 
and  clarity  of  its  style,  and  the  kindliness  of  thought  and 
sympathy  which  pervades  it. 

"  Windsor    Castle, 

"July  nth,  1870. 
"  DEAR  LADY  SEYMOUR, 

"  Pray  accept  the  expression  of  my  most  sincere 
sympathy  with  you  in  this  terrible  sorrow.  I  did  not  think 
when  I  saw  him  on  Tuesday,  which  I  am  so  thankful  I  was 
able  to  do,  that  the  end  was  so  near.  He  was  a  kind 
and  faithful  friend  of  my  beloved  husband,  and  I  shall 
ever  remember  him  with  the  kindliest  feelings.  Many  a 
memory  of  the  past  has  gone  with  him.  I  am  so  thankful 
to  hear  that  dear  Sir  Francis'  last  hours  and  moments  were 
peaceful  and  painless,  and  it  is  precious  to  think  of  his  re- 
lease from  cruel  suffering  which  must  have  been  terrible  to 
witness.  Pray  express  my  truest  sympathy  to  your  children 
and  to  his  sister  and  brother,  and  believe  me  always  yours 
very  sincerely, 

"  VICTORIA  R.I." 
73 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

How  easily  this  letter  could  have  been  written  by  Sir 
Henry  Ponsonby,  the  Queen's  Private  Secretary,  or  by 
her  Lady  in  Waiting.  "  I  am  commanded  by  the  Queen 
to  convey  to  you  the  deep  sympathy  of  Her  Majesty,  etc. 
etc."  ;  but  this  was  not  the  Queen's  way  of  entering  into 
the  sorrows  of  her  people,  and  least  of  all  with  those  who 
had  rendered  her  of  their  life's  service.  It  is  a  beautiful 
trait  in  that  Sovereign's  character  that  she  spared  herself 
in  no  way  in  following  the  womanly  dictates  of  her  heart, 
wherever  sorrow  was  concerned.  She  herself  knew  the 
shadow  of  it,  the  long  days  when  the  light  of  life  seemed 
extinguished  and  the  tears  of  bereavement  had  blinded  out 
the  day,  leaving  her  loneliness  beyond  the  lot  of  ordinary 
women  in  the  aloofness  which  surrounds  a  throne. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  forget  the  absolute  avalanche  of 
wreaths  that  came  to  the  Palace  on  the  General's  death. 
It  was  this  writer's  sad  privilege  to  arrange  them  in  an 
improvised  chapel  wherein  lay  the  remains.  No  man 
ever  went  to  his  rest  followed  by  more  universal  respect. 
He  had  the  tears  of  his  Sovereign,  the  sorrow  of  his  family 
the  affection  of  innumerable  friends. 


74 


VII 

QUEEN  VICTORIA'S  WOMENKIND 

(Mostly  concerning  the  Gores  of  Arran  and  the  Hays  of  Iweeddale  and  of  Erroll) 

Amelia,  Lady  Erroll.  Queen  Victoria's  Love  of  a  Good  Story.  Ladj  Edward 
Pelham  Clinton  as  a  Contributor.  The  late  Queen  at  the  Piano.  The  Earldom 
of  Erroll  and  its  special  Precedence.  A  Genius  for  Minutiae — Three  Stories  of 
King  Edward.  Lord  Napier's  Tea-Table  Aside.  Sir  George  Buggin  and  his 
Bride.  His  Widow's  short-lived  Royalty.  Reminiscences  of  the  Duchess  of 
Inverness.  Colonel  Fred  Gore  hangs  his  Friends.  My  Bout  of  Neuralgia  and 
Billington's  offer  of  the  Drop  that  Cures.  Remembrances  of  Lady  Jane  Taylor. 
Bartolucci's  Burrow  in  Burlington  Arcade  :  I  dig  him  out.  Jane,  Lady  Ely's 
Thirst  for  Information. 

IT  seems  as  if  Queen  Victoria  had  a  partiality  for  the 
great  historic  family  of  Hay.  Elizabeth,  Duchess  of 
Wellington,  daughter  of  Field-Marshal  Lord  Tweeddale, 
was  for  some  time  Mistress  of  the  Robes ;  and  Jane, 
Marchioness  of  Ely,  a  Hay-Mackenzie  branch  of  the  Tweed- 
dales,  and  Amelia,  Countess  of  Erroll,  also  members 
of  the  Hay  family,  were  Women  of  the  Bedchamber.  To 
call  a  great  lady  a  Woman  of  the  Bedchamber  does  not 
seem  polite.  In  a  Court  one  would  expect  more  courtli- 
ness, but  such  is  the  official  title. 

Lady  Erroll  was  the  wife  of  the  eighteenth  Earl,  and 
granddaughter  of  the  second  Earl  of  Arran.  She  was  held  in 
high  esteem  by  Queen  Victoria,  and  may  be  said  to  have 
enjoyed  the  affection  and  friendship  of  that  somewhat 
exclusive  Sovereign.  The  Queen's  predilection  for  her  is 
largely  explained  by  Lady  Erroll's  vein  of  humour  and 

75 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

mastery  of  music.  Queen  Victoria  loved  a  good  story,  and 
the  writer  remembers  being  told  by  Lord  Edward  Clinton, 
Master  of  the  Household,  that  he  considered  he  owed  his 
position  to  his  wife's  stories.  Lady  Edward  was  the  most 
inimitable  raconteur  I  ever  heard.  No  one  could  touch  her 
in  her  especial  art.  For  many  years  this  writer  never  heard 
a  really  good  thing  without  sending  it  to  the  Master  of  the 
Household.  He  can  recall  no  instance  of  such  a  remittance 
but  was  followed  by  an  immediate  response  of  thanks  and 
criticism  written  in  Lord  Edward's  clear  and  distinctive 
handwriting.  He  treasures  also  acknowledgments  in 
Gladstone's  own  handwriting  for  data  collected  and  sent 
to  that  great  man.  Alas  and  alas  for  the  disappearing 
courtesies  of  a  kindlier  day !  It  was  but  lately  that, 
laboriously,  with  the  difficulty  of  impaired  sight,  I  sent 
fourteen  pages  of  data  concerning  our  England  of  To-day 
to  one  who  had  filled  a  somewhat  prominent  civil  position  ; 
there  was  little  civil  in  the  response,  which  took  a  month  to 
come  and  then  was  merely  a  message  through  a  third  person. 
Petrol  carries  us  speedily  through  space,  so  quickly  indeed 
that  one  misses  the  scenery,  but  this  latter-day  transit  of 
Time  loses  even  more  that  is  beautiful,  the  courtesies 
which  yesterday  were  the  passports  of  gentlemen. 

Added  to  her  appreciation  of  the  insinuating  double 
entendre,  Queen  Victoria  had  the  discrimination  of  the 
born  artist  touching  the  merits  of  music.  She  liked  more- 
over that  her  surroundings  should  be  musical,  and  Miss 
Bertha  Lambart  was  but  one  of  many  Maids  of  Honour 
thus  gifted.  I  have  listened  by  the  hour  to  the  music  of 
this  harmonious  lady,  as  her  notes  changed  from  grave  to 
gay  on  the  wings  of  her  Irish  fancy.  Lady  Erroll  would 
often  and  often  form  one  of  an  illustrious  quartette — the 
Queen  herself,  Princess  Beatrice,  Lady  Erroll  and  Miss 

76 


Queen  Victoria's  Womenkind 

Edith  Drummond  possessing  themselves  of  two  pianos  in 
double  duet.  Lady  Erroll  was  a  petite  personage  of 
great  charm,  and  there  were  many  others  who  followed 
Her  Majesty's  illustrious  lead  in  their  affection  for  her. 
Her  portrait,  one  of  Sir  Francis  Grant's  masterpieces, 
depicts  her  as  standing  by  the  Arab  presented  to  her  by 
Omar  Pasha. 

The  Earls  of  Erroll  possess  a  distinction  in  precedence. 
As  Hereditary  Lords  High  Constable  of  Scotland  they  rank 
before  all  other  subjects  in  their  own  country.  Even 
Dukes  and  Marquesses  have  to  stand  aside  and  follow.  This 
is  all  very  well  when  your  hostess  is  podgy  and  dull,  for  the 
Dukes  must  fee]  signal  relief ;  but  it  must  be  otherwise 
when  the  Lord  High  Constable  cuts  out  His  Grace  in 
handing  in  the  chatelaine  adorned  with  youth  and  beauty. 
So  historic  is  this  family  and  illustrious  in  lineage,  that 
when  the  fifteenth  Earl  inadvertently  kept  his  head  covered 
in  the  presence  of  his  King,  and  hastily  apologized,  His 
Majesty  said  :  "  It  matters  little,  I  feel  honoured  by  the 
presence  of  an  Erroll." 

At  a  luncheon  party  given  by  Sir  John  and  Lady 
Shelley-Rolls,  I  asked  Lord  Erroll's  son  whether  his  father 
had  ever  found  hostesses  unaware  of  his  special  precedence. 
He  told  me  to  ask  his  father.  Shortly  afterwards,  at  one 
of  those  charming  dinner  parties  which  have  given  Mrs. 
Eckstein  a  special  place  in  London  life,  I  took  the  opportunity 
of  asking  Lord  Erroll  this  question.  Not  so  very  often, 
though  certainly  sometimes,  hostesses  are  unaware  ;  and 
it  is  yet  another  instance  of  King  Edward's  wonderful 
general  social  knowledge  that  at  a  dinner  where  the 
chatelaine  was  about  to  give  Lord  Erroll  his  precedence  as 
an  Earl,  the  King  righted  her  ignorance,  and  the  Dukes 
had  to  stand  by.  I  may  give  another  instance  from  my  own 

77 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

knowledge  of  King  Edward's  love  of  accuracy  and  eagle 
eye  for  anything  that  was  wrong.  A  little  friend  of 
mine  was  Page  of  Honour  to  Queen  Victoria,  and  whilst 
awaiting  Her  Majesty's  appearance  for  a  Drawing-Room, 
King  Edward,  then  Prince  of  Wales,  noticed  that  the 
boy  had  omitted  the  correct  adjustment  of  the  shoulder- 
knot,  and  turning  to  him  said  :  "  Tell  them  at  home  to 
look  after  you  more  carefully."  On  another  occasion  at 
Eton  he  noticed  the  son  of  a  member  of  the  Court  and 
told  him  to  brush  his  hat.  Before  going  away  he  gave 
the  boy  a  sovereign  and  told  him  to  buy  a  new  one. 

Lady  ErrolTs  brother,  Colonel  Fred  Gore,  the 
"  Freddy  "  of  innumerable  friends,  has  been  a  figure  in  the 
social  world  for  three  generations.  His  marriage  with  Miss 
Alice  Schenley,  elder  sister  of  Lady  EUenborough,  has 
proved  one  of  the  few  ideally  happy  marriages  I  have  known. 
I  was  there  amid  the  sunshine  and  roses  of  Cannes  when 
the  marriage  took  place,  and  the  sunshine  seems  to  have 
lingered  still.  Mrs.  Gore  is  a  woman  with  great  width  of 
heart,  and  of  brain  singularly  staunch  to  its  convictions. 

The  Colonel  has  had  a  life  charged  with  interest.  Like 
most  men  who  entertain  largely,  his  memory  of  facts  and 
faces  has  been  no  small  asset  to  his  career.  His  feats  of 
memory  commenced  at  an  early  age.  Born  in  Canada  he 
can  recall  watching  the  flames  that  consumed  the  Senate- 
House  in  Montreal.  He  was  then  but  four.  The 
history  of  this  burning  is  worth  remembering.  The 
Loyalists  in  that  Canadian  House  of  Commons  were  out- 
numbered, and  the  Opposition  actually  passed  a  bill  for 
the  repayment  by  the  State  of  all  losses  incurred  by  the 
rebels  in  rebellion.  The  Loyalists  retorted  by  burning  the 
Senate-House  identified  with  such  an  indignity. 

At  the  age  of  nineteen  Gore  went,  with  his  regiment, 

78 


Queen  Victoria's  Womenkind 

to  the  Curragh,  subsequently  proceeding  to  India  as  A.D.C. 
to  Lord  Napier  and  Ettrick,  then  Governor  of  Madras.  He 
could  not  well  have  had  a  better  chief,  a  man  charged  with 
distinction,  well-read  and  with  a  vivid  sense  of  humour. 
Many  witty  things  were  said  at  his  table.  The  following 
is  a  tea-table  aside.  One  afternoon  Lady  Napier's  mother, 
discussing  a  recent  cause  celebre^  said  across  the  table  to 
Lord  Napier  :  "I  cannot  understand  why  men  run  after 
other  men's  wives  !  "  "  Curiosity,  dear  Lady  Julia,"  was 
the  reply. 

This  Lady  Julia  Lockwood  was  one  of  the  numerous 
family  of  Arthur,  second  Earl  of  Arran,  as  was  Colonel 
Gore's  father,  General  Sir  Charles  Gore,  G.C.B.,  Governor 
of  Chelsea  Hospital,  and  Cecilia,  late  Duchess  of  Inverness. 

There  is  quite  a  romance  connected  with  the  life  of 
this  latter  lady.  She  was  for  twenty-four  hours  possessed 
of  the  prestige  and  precedence  of  a  Royal  Princess  of 
England.  In  her  girlhood  she  was  proposed  to  by  a  worthy 
London  Alderman  with  the  euphonious  name  of  Sir  George 
Buggin.  A  proposed  settlement  of  four  thousand  a  year 
on  his  daughter  proved  too  much  for  Lord  Arran,  and  he 
permitted  the  marriage.  After  Sir  George's  death  Lady 
Cecilia,  somewhat  discontented  with  the  name  of  Buggin 
(and  I  hardly  blame  her),  assumed  the  patronymic  of  her 
mother  and  was  known  as  Lady  Cecilia  Underwood.  It 
was  at  this  stage  that  the  Duke  of  Sussex,  son  of  George  the 
Third  and  younger  brother  of  the  Duke  of  Kent,  Queen 
Victoria's  father,  appeared  on  the  scene.  Financially 
His  Royal  Highness  was  at  the  time  in  a  perilously  tight 
corner,  and  proposed  to  Lady  Cecilia.  They  were  married, 
and  for  a  brief  spell  she  was  accorded  precedence  as 
Duchess  of  Sussex,  as  testified  by  various  letters  from  the 
Royal  family.  But  mainly  owing  to  the  hubbub  created 

79 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

by  the  Duchess  of  Cambridge,  who  refused  to  allow 
precedence  to  the  new  Duchess,  it  was  resolved  to  refuse 
her  the  position,  but  she  was  much  beloved  by  the  Royal 
family  of  her  own  day,  and  Queen  Victoria  created  her 
Duchess  of  Inverness.  This  is  the  only  lady  created  a 
Duchess  in  her  own  right  since  Barbara  Villiers  was  made 
Duchess  of  Cleveland  by  Charles  the  Second,  though 
of  course  the  great  Duke  of  Marlborough's  daughter  was 
Duchess  in  her  own  right,  but  it  was  by  inheritance,  not 
by  creation. 

Such  was  the  affection  of  the  Duke  of  Sussex  for  his 
wife  that  he  refused  to  be  entombed  with  the  Royalties 
at  Windsor,  directing  that  he  should  be  buried  at  Kensal 
Green,  where  the  Duchess  might  also  find  a  resting-place. 

A  man's  surroundings  are  the  index  of  himself.  Colonel 
Gore's  den  at  Rutland  Gate  has  many  an  interesting  feature. 
Military  books,  memoirs  and  history  show  the  trend  of  his 
reading,  and  of  his  numberless  friendships  there  is  ample 
evidence  on  the  walls.  We  recognize  Captain  Percival, 
the  host  of  the  Duke  of  Albany  at  the  Villa  Nevada,  where 
indeed  that  lamented  Prince  died  ;  the  great  Lord  Salisbury, 
whose  daughter-in-law,  the  present  Marchioness,  is  also  a 
Gore ;  the  Duke  of  Sussex,  uncle  by  marriage ;  Lord 
Roberts,  and  many  other  well-known  faces.  An  interesting 
presentment  of  Lord  Napier  and  Ettrick's  party  at  Madras 
for  the  Duke  of  Edinburgh's  visit  depicts  many  a  well- 
known  face — the  late  Admiral  Lord  Beresford,  General 
Sir  Seymour  Blane,  Colonel  "  Tim "  Reilly,  Charlie  de 
Robeck,  General  Fordyce,  and  of  course  the  Duke  of 
Edinburgh  and  his  host.  If  Colonel  Gore  should  elect 
to  hang  all  his  friends  (I  do  not  mean  in  a  Calcraftan  way), 
he  would  have  to  lease  the  adjoining  house. 

I  well  remember  being  taken  by  my  father  many  times 

80 


W3C3IIH KSiS 

,  OF "CHVSBIBIIBg^ 


His    Royal    Highness 

THE    DUKE    OF    SUSSEX. 


[To  face  />age_SO. 


Queen  Victoria's  Womenkind 

as  a  child  to  tea  with  Lady  Caroline  Calcraft,  a  daughter 
of  the  fifth  Duke  of  Manchester,  and  wife  of  John  Hales 
Calcraft  of  Rempston  Hall,  Dorset.  How  often  she  was 
indignant  that  her  husband's  old  Dorset  name  should  be 
degraded  by  Calcraft,  the  then  official  hangman. 

Years  ago,  during  the  Fenian  risings,  crossing  to  Kings- 
town in  the  Leinster,  I  was  a  martyr  to  neuralgia.  I  was 
indeed  in  agony,  and  the  steward  was  kindness  itself,  as  was 
a  gentleman  who  was  near  me.  He  had  screened  the  light 
from  me,  and  done  many  kind  things,  which  encouraged 
me  to  ask  him  whether  he  had  anything  in  his  bag  that 
would  relieve  the  pain.  "  I  have  one  thing,"  he  said, 
"  but  not  handy — a  drop  and  you  feel  no  more."  "  Oh, 
I  should  like  it,"  I  said.  "  Not  so  sure  you  would,"  he 
muttered,  as  he  turned  away.  It  subsequently  transpired 
that  he  was  Billington,  en  route  for  Dublin,  for  the  execution 
of  some  Fenians. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  notorieties  I  ever  met  was 
Frederic  Lushington  of  Rosiere,  Lyndhurst.  He  married 
Lady  Margaret  Hay,  daughter  of  the  seventeenth  Earl  of 
Erroll.  Brought  up  at  the  Court  of  Naples,  where  his 
father,  Sir  Henry,  third  Baronet,  was  for  many  years  our 
representative,  and  passing  a  large  portion  of  his  life  in 
India  where  he  was  a  Judge,  he  was  a  veritable  encyclo- 
pedia of  information  and  anecdote.  I  remember  his  telling 
me  of  his  adroit  proposal  to  Lady  Margaret.  They  were 
sitting  on  the  upper  deck  as  they  passed  from  Southampton 
to  Ryde,  and  a  long  gold  chain  she  was  wearing  got  some- 
how entangled  in  his  malacca,  when  he  said  :  "  It  seems 
that  our  lives  are  somehow  linked."  That  is  how  it 
happened. 

The  historic  family  of  Hay  is  represented  in  the  peerage 
by  two  Earldoms  and  a  Marquisate,  and  it  is  a  most  curious 

81  6 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

coincidence  that  in  each  name  there  is  not  only  a  doubling 
of  a  letter,  but  a  double  double — Kmwou//,  Erroll,  and 
Tvreeddale. 

One  of  the  great  beauties  of  the  Early  Victorians  was 
a  Tweeddale — Elizabeth,  Duchess  of  Wellington,  Mistress 
of  the  Robes,  as  I  have  said,  to  Queen  Victoria,  and  elder 
sister  of  a  woman  well-known  in  London  society  as  Lady 
Jane  Taylor,  wife  of  General  Sir  Richard  Taylor,  G.C.B., 
at  one  time  successively  Adjutant-General  and  Governor 
of  Sandhurst.  Lady  Jane  was  of  a  type  absolutely  extinct. 
To  the  instincts  of  aristocracy  she  added  a  very  real  and 
practical  interest  in  progress  of  all  kinds.  She  was  instru- 
mental in  initiating  the  Military  Tournament,  and  through- 
out her  long  life  was  associated  with  many  movements  of 
public  utility.  At  one  time  she  had  a  scheme  for  the 
emigration  of  women  and  asked  this  writer  for  a  subscription. 
"  I'll  willingly  become  an  annual  subscriber  if  you  on  your 
part  will  guarantee  to  emigrate  the  women  I  name,"  was 
the  reply.  This  scheme,  destructive  to  the  Colonies,  fell 
through. 

The  week-end  parties  of  Sir  Richard  and  Lady  Jane 
Taylor  at  Drayton  Hall  were  certainly  features  in  the 
London  of  that  day.  It  is  remarkable  that  a  sister  of 
Lady  Jane,  Lady  Julia  Peel,  was  established  at  Drayton 
Manor,  and  that  she  herself,  married  to  Sir  Richard 
Taylor,  had  a  sister  married  to  Simon  Watson  Taylor  ;  and 
yet  another  pair  of  sisters  who  each  married  a  Ramsay, 
one  that  Marquess  of  Dalhousie  who  was  Governor-General 
of  India  (his  wife  died  of  mal  de  mer  on  her  voyage  home), 
and  the  other  to  Wardlaw  Ramsay  of  Whitehill.  Their 
daughter  Emily  married  Colonel  James  Graham  Toler.  His 
mother  was  Henrietta  Scarlett,  daughter  of  Lord  Abinger, 
and  concerning  this,  I  may  recall  that,  having  an  argument 

82 


Queen  Victoria's  Womenkind 

with  him  on  some  literary  question,  he  remarked  :  "  That's 
a  deep  subject ;  I'm  not  sufficiently  read."  "  You  ought 
to  be  with  so  much  Scarlett  blood  in  you,"  was  the 
retort. 

There  were  two  fine  hubbubs  in  the  Hay  family  towards 
the  close  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and  there  are  many 
living  who  will  remember  the  sensation  they  caused.  The 
first  closely  followed  the  death  of  the  veteran  Field- 
Marshal,  fourth  Marquess  of  Tweeddale.  A  claimant  arose 
who,  if  his  case  had  succeeded,  would  have  illegitimized 
every  member  of  the  Field-Marshal's  family  by  his  wife,  a 
daughter  of  the  fifth  Duke  of  Manchester.  Think  what 
this  would  have  meant  to  such  influential  families  as  the 
Montagus,  Wellesleys,  Ramsays  and  Peels.  The  sons 
of  the  great  Duke  of  Wellington  and  Sir  Robert  Peel  had 
each  married  sisters  who  were  thus  jeopardized,  whilst 
a  third  was  the  wife  of  a  Governor-General  of  India. 
Happily  the  suit  failed,  and  the  family  were  left  in  possession 
of  their  honours. 

The  second  hubbub  was  consequent  on  the  death  of  the 
Field-Marshal's  son,  the  ninth  Marquess.  On  the  latter's 
death  his  next  brother,  Lord  William  Hay,  an  ex-civil 
servant  of  India,  thought  to  step  into  easy  succession. 
But  to  the  amazement  of  all,  his  brother's  widow,  Julia, 
Marchioness  of  Tweeddale,  made  the  announcement  that 
an  interesting  event  might  shortly  be  expected.  She  had 
been  a  childless  wife  for  six  years,  and  there  was  much  of 
interest  and  no  little  incredulity  on  the  part  of  the  many 
friends  of  so  distinguished  a  family.  Meanwhile  the 
Yester  and  other  Tweeddale  estates  were  thrown  into 
Chancery,  and  Lord  William  and  his  charming  Italian  wife 
were,  like  Mahomet's  coffin,  somewhere  'twixt  Heaven  and 
the  other  place.  After  some  months  of  apprehension  the 

83  6* 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

matter  ended,  as  men  said  it  would,  and  Lord  William 
duly  succeeded  as  tenth  Marquess. 

The  writer  has  alluded  to  the  beautiful  Italian  wife, 
who  thus  became  the  only  British  peeress  originating  frcm 
that  land  of  sunshine  and  song.  She  was  Candida,  daughter 
of  Signor  Vincenzo  Bartolucci.  He  was  a  rum  devil.  I  met 
him  constantly  at  Drayton  Hall.  He  had  a  breezy  air  of 
bonhomie.  He  could  sing  a  song  and  tell  you  a  story  like 
none.  He  called  a  spade  a  spade,  and  looked  a  rake.  He 
had  the  name  of  having  been  a  music-master,  but  mind  you 
I  was  not  there  and  do  not  know.  He  was  master  of  many 
other  arts  when  I  knew  him,  but  these  were  not  altogether 
harmonious.  This  captivating  way  of  his  had  won  him 
a  wife  of  pedigree  and  position.  This  lady  was  Scotch, 
and  her  daughters  had  the  beauty  and  colouring  of  the 
South  and  the  sterling  culture  of  the  North.  I  was  very 
young  at  the  time,  and,  between  ourselves,  was  vastly 
flattered  by  the  notice  and  unconcealed  predilection  which 
Bartolucci  evinced  in  my  adolescent  favour. 

One  day,  sauntering  down  Piccadilly,  I  saw  wild  arms 
in  a  hansom  waving  towards  me,  and  there  was  Bartolucci 
large  as  life.  He  pulled  up  and  said  :  "  Jump  in,  my  boy, 
and  have  a  drive  with  me  ;  I  am  going  to  sow  paste  cards 
and  buy  cravats."  Very  much  flattered  by  the  kindness 
of  this  great  man,  I  readily  got  in,  and  for  two  mortal 
hours  we  drove  everywhere  through  the  town.  Finally  he 
yelled  through  the  trap-door,  and  the  man  drove  us  to  the 
Piccadilly  end  of  Burlington  Arcade.  Bartolucci  then 
tendered  me  three  angelic  Melachrinos,  and  said  :  "  Now, 
my  boy,  you  sit  here  in  the  hansom  and  smoke  these 
cigarettes.  I  go  in  here  to  the  Arcade  where  is  my  hosier. 
From  him  I  get  my  best  cravats.  I  shall  not  be  long." 
With  that  he  bounced  out,  and  I  smoked  his  three  cigarettes 

84 


Queen  Victoria's  Womenkind 

and  about  ten  of  my  own — but  still  no  Bartolucci,  and  I 
was  beginning  to  think  that  this  return  of  his  would  end  in 
smoke.  I  thereupon  left  the  hansom,  and,  walking  into  the 
first  hosier's  shop  I  saw,  I  said,  in  a  grand  way  :  "  As 
regards  the  parcel  ordered  by  your  customer,  Mr.  Barto- 
lucci  "  "  We  have  no  such  name  on  our  books,  Sir," 

was  the  reply.  I  did  so  in  several  similar  shops,  till  at  last 
I  ran  my  fox  to  earth.  "  Oh,"  I  said,  "  he  asked  you  to 
send  the  ties  and  things,  but  I  am  going  there  and  will 
save  you  the  trouble."  Whereupon  the  man  tendered  me 
the  parcel  with  Bartolucci's  name  and  address  inscribed 
thereon.  (I  often  think  how  honest  I  must  have  looked 
in  those  days.  Alas,  for  the  changes  of  Time  !)  Oh,  the 
joy  of  it !  For  I  did  not  know  from  Adam  where  the 
man  lived.  Now  I  was  all  right,  and  so  was  the  hansom 
man.  Forthwith  returning  to  the  hansom  driver  (who,  I 
thought,  looked  relieved  at  sight  of  me),  I  ordered  him  to 
drive  to  i83A,  Half  Moon  Street.  Arriving  there,  I  told 
the  superannuated  butler,  who  evidently  kept  the  diggings, 
that  Mr.  Bartolucci's  hansom  had  returned  for  orders,  and 
decamped  as  hard  as  ever  the  limbs  of  adolescence  could 
lay  on.  The  parcel  I  had  surreptitiously  placed  upon  the 
hall  chair.  It  is  an  extraordinary  and  disappointing  fact 
that,  on  next  encountering  Signor  Bartolucci,  his  mien 
showed  less  of  the  sunshine  of  the  South  than  of  the 
austerities  of  Ben  Nevis. 

Concerning  Jane,  Marchioness  of  Ely,  yet  another  Hay 
in  the  Queen's  service,  I  have  many  affectionate  recollec- 
tions. How  good  she  was  to  me  and  how  anxious  to  pro- 
mote what  she  always  called  my  career.  She  read  daily 
to  the  Queen,  and  was  careful  to  include  portions  from  my 
earlier  books  which  Her  Majesty  had  been  gracious  enough 
to  receive  on  their  publication.  It  was  Lady  Ely  who 

85 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

arranged,  in  conjunction  with  the  Queen's  able  Secretary, 
the  late  General  Sir  Frederick  Ponsonby,  that  special  and 
separate  audience,  which  could  never  have  been  obtained 
without  such  kindly  influence.  On  the  death  of  Prince 
Leopold,  Duke  of  Albany,  Her  late  Majesty's  younger  son, 
Lady  Ely,  knowing  that  I  had  been  with  him  at  Oxford 
when  the  Prince  was  at  Christ  Church,  and  also  that  I  had 
seen  much  of  him  at  Cannes  during  the  weeks  previous 
to  the  Duke's  lamented  death,  sent  me  an  invitation  to 
luncheon  immediately  on  my  return  to  London.  I  knew  at 
once  what  that  meant.  I  had  a  most  pleasant  t&te-a-tete 
luncheon  with  her,  but  cannot  say  that  Lady  Ely  was  very 
much  the  wiser. 


86 


VIII 

SOVEREIGNTY   AND    ITS    ENTOURAGE 

Colonel  Lord  Edward  Pelhara  Clinton,  G.C.V.O.,  late  Master  of  the  Household, 

General  the  Right  Hon.  Sir  Henry  Ponsonby,  G.C.B.,  Private  Secretary  to  the 

late  Queen  Victoria  ;  and  others  connected  with  the  Court 

"  Ode  to  December "  sent  to  the  Queen — Her  Majesty's  unique  Acceptance. 
Reminiscences  of  the  War — Its  taking  of  the  last  Heir  to  the  extinction  of  an 
Honour.  Sympathy  with  Lords  Rosmead,  Knaresborough  and  Stamfordh  m. 
Society  and  Men  of  New  Types.  The  King's  unending  Work — The  Overgrown 
Toils  of  Empire.  A  Pathetic  Story — Lady  Lincoln  leaves  her  Home — Her 
Little  Boy — She  left  a  Tear  upon  his  Face.  Lord  Edward  as  Mediator — He  is 
christened  "  The  Dove."  The  Bateman-Scott  Baronetcies — Victorious  Bout 
with  Lord  Edward.  Equally  descended  from  Charles  the  Martyr  and  His 
Murderer.  Saved  by  her  Babes. 

1  N  considering  the  onerous  life  of  the  Sovereign  and 
1  the  incessant  claims  on  his  time  and  energies,  there 
are  two  points  which  I  think  have  never  been  men- 
tioned. In  the  days,  say  of  the  Regent,  what  would 
have  been  thought  of  a  Royal  garden-party  to  which 
invitations  numbered  by  the  veritable  thousand  had  per- 
force to  be  issued,  and  even  at  that  leaving  out  as  many 
more  who  doubtless  had  a  good  right  to  be  invited  ? 
society  (I  absolutely  refuse  to  give  it  a  big  S)  has  so  swollen 
as  to  need  a  dispensation  from  Heaven,  if  indeed  the  spheres 
would  condescend  to  notice  it,  to  define  its  boundaries. 
This  fact  of  its  enlargement  and  the  increasing  numbers 
who  imagine  themselves  eligible  for  presentment  not  only 
is  an  increased  strain  upon  the  Sovereign  himself  but  on  the 
care  and  consideration  of  his  advisers.  There  are  such 
multitudes  in  these  days  whom  it  would  be  injudicious 
altogether  to  ignore,  and  the  endeavour  not  to  overlook 

87 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

them  is  in  itself  a  work  of  art.  But  one's  conclusions 
concerning  people  cannot  be  well  grounded  on  flimsy 
foundations,  and  the  stablishing  of  those  conclusions  takes 
time.  The  prescient  Court  official  must  be  as  ready  with 
his  judgment  as  he  is  instant  in  his  words,  and  the  work 
of  collecting  and  sifting  data  concerning  people,  their 
antecedents  and  their  interests,  must  be  as  irksome  as  ap- 
parently it  is  eternal.  I  should  imagine  that  King  Edward, 
who  rarely  forgot  either  the  useful  person  or  the  individual 
who  had  rendered  him  a  service,  would  be  taken  in  after- 
times  as  a  model  for  monarchs.  It  is  the  greatness  of  the 
great  that  comprehends  the  littleness  of  the  small.  It  is 
also  greatness  that  realizes  that  the  great  can  occasionally 
be  little,  and  it  is  in  the  ignoring  of  this  littleness  that  even 
Crowns  have  at  times  been  rendered  uneasy. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  create  in  a  work  of  fiction  men 
more  efficient  for  the  duties  they  had  and  have  on  hand 
than  those  who  with  unsurpassed  fidelity  have  served  the 
latter  years  of  Queen  Victoria,  the  rule  of  King  Edward, 
and  those  momentous  times  over  which  our  present 
Sovereign  has  reigned.  It  has  been  no  little  advantage 
to  this  writer  that  some  of  these  men  have  accorded  him 
friendship  and  even  affection.  His  life  could  not  but 
have  been  influenced  by  their  devotion  to  duty  and  the 
discretion  which  crowned  those  duties  with  success.  It 
was  seldom  that  to  be  with  them  was  not  to  learn.  In 
this  chapter  I  shall  tell  you  all  that  is  permitted  me  to 
recall  of  such  faithful  and  affectionate  servants  of  the 
Throne  as  Lord  Edward  Pelham  Clinton,  Master  of  the 
Household  to  Queen  Victoria  and  for  a  period  to  King 
Edward  ;  Sir  Henry  Ponsonby,  Private  Secretary  to  the  late 
Queen,  as  have  already  been  depicted  the  services  of  General 
Sir  Francis  Seymour,  her  Master  of  the  Ceremonies. 


Sovereignty  and  its  Entourage 

His  Majesty's  devoted  Keeper  of  the  Privy  Purse, 
Colonel  Sir  Frederick  Ponsonby,  displays  the  hereditary 
gift.  No  man  could  have  been  more  fitted  for  his  position 
as  Private  Secretary  to  Queen  Victoria  than  was  General 
Sir  Henry  Ponsonby,  Sir  Frederick's  father.  I  had  many 
an  opportunity  for  noting  this,  and,  as  a  frequent  guest 
at  the  house  of  his  sisters  in  Wilton  Place,  gained  many  a 
sidelight  on  one  who  so  completely  possessed  Her  Majesty's 
confidence.  Sir  Henry's  personal  kindness  to  myself  is  a 
wonder  to  me  as  I  look  back  upon  those  years.  Passing 
through  his  hands,  I  was  privileged  to  offer  to  Queen 
Victoria  the  only  poem  ever  written  and  printed  for  a 
Sovereign  and  as  such  accepted.  It  was  through  the  late 
Lord  Salisbury's  advice  that  this  unprecedented  episode 
occurred.  The  "  Ode  to  December "  was  written  in 
a  country  house,  the  chatelaine  of  which  was  Lord 
Salisbury's  sister-in-law.  She  at  once  sent  it  to  Hatfield, 
and  was  more  than  elate  with  the  Premier's  laconic 
reply  :  "  This  ought  to  go  to  the  Queen."  December 
was  desolation  to  that  sad  heart,  for  it  was  in  the  bleakest 
of  Winter  that  the  added  chill  of  Death  came  to  her 
in  the  loss  of  husband  and  daughter.  Following  the 
Premier's  advice,  I  had  the  "  Ode  "  printed  and  forwarded, 
unaware  that  I  was  doing  anything  unusual.  After  its 
acceptance  I  learnt  from  Sir  Henry's  own  lips  how 
privileged  I  was. 

Those  who  constrained  this  writer  to  pen  these  Memoirs 
had  some  difficulty  in  so  doing.  It  is  not  in  me  nor  to  my 
liking  to  parade  either  myself  or  my  experiences.  But  in 
this  portion  of  my  recital  we  have  arrived  at  recollections 
which  tend  to  prove  the  wisdom  and  foresight  of  those  who 
strenuously  opposed  the  idea  of  my  taking  with  me  hence 
data  which  might  possibly  be  of  use  in  the  forming  of 

89 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

estimates  hereafter.  Daily  less  and  less  are  left  who  can 
make  such  a  contrast ;  and,  of  the  few  who  yet  remain,  some 
may  never  have  noticed,  others  may  be  without  the 
critical  faculty,  and  the  residue  unable  to  write.  It  there- 
fore behoves  all  thinkers  to  give  of  what  they  know 
concerning  changes  which  indeed  are  greater  than  men 
realize. 

With  this  in  mind  and  in  view,  I  would  ask  you  to 
contrast  the  days  and  duties  of  Sir  Henry  Ponsonby  the 
father,  and  Sir  Frederick  Ponsonby  the  son.  In  much  they 
are  so  near  :  in  most  they  are  so  far.  It  is  almost  impossible 
to  realize  the  enormous  additions  to  his  duties  which  face 
Lord  Stamfordham,  Sir  Frederick  and  others,  whose  counsel 
is  an  unending  necessity  for  the  Sovereign's  assistance. 

Lord  Stamfordham  has  enjoyed  the  confidence  of  three 
regal  generations.  Two  words  define  his  work — decision  : 
precision.  Amongst  the  masses  who  are  cruel  sufferers 
through  the  Great  War,  none  dwell  more  in  our  hearts  of 
sympathy  than  do  those  bereaved  of  only  sons.  They  in 
truth  are  the  bearers  of  the  blighted  sheaves  of  hope, 
and  for  whom  shall  they  now  labour  ?  It  is  many  years 
since  first  I  thought  that,  should  such  a  fateful  blow 
befall  me,  I  wonder  whether  sound  should  not  die  from 
song  and  fragrance  from  flower.  I  barely  know  Lord 
Stamfordham  or  his  fellow-peers,  Knaresborough  and  Ros- 
mead,  but  I  shared  in  their  sorrow  as  even  strangers  can. 

As  already  alluded  to,  society  has  not  only  enlarged, 
but  men  of  absolutely  new  types  are  in  it.  I  have  known 
many  closely  associated  with  the  Court  of  Queen  Victoria 
who  could  never  from  their  hereditary  and  official  instincts 
have  had  sufficient  flexibility  to  comprehend  the  new  men 
of  to-day.  Yet  this  has  successfully  been  accomplished, 
together  with  the  understanding  of  the  vast  interests 

90 


Sovereignty  and  its  Entourage 

overseas  and  the  different  and  diverse  developments  which 
seek  inspiration  from  the  Throne. 

What  additions  these  Dominions  and  their  closer  linking 
up  with  London  have  made  to  the  labours  of  the  Crown. 
Think  how  the  Levees  and  Investitures  have  grown,  and 
realize  what  the  toil  of  their  preparation  portends. 
And  all  this  work  is  done  so  noiselessly.  No  one  would 
suppose  that  Buckingham  Palace  is  the  hive  it  is.  Believe 
me  that  the  centuries  are  seen  in  the  ceremonies,  toils  and 
triumphs  which  nothing  but  the  hand  of  Time  could  create. 

The  responsibility  of  sovereignty  in  mediaeval  times  was 
great,  but  it  was  as  nothing  to  the  toil  of  the  monarch  of 
to-day.  I  have  myself  known  three  Sovereigns  of  this 
great  Empire,  and  may  state  as  an  absolute  conviction  that, 
whatever  were  the  qualities  which  individualized  His 
Majesty's  immediate  predecessors,  neither  of  them  could 
have  attempted  or  withstood  the  strain  and  incessant  toil 
for  the  Empire  which  was  the  King's  contribution  to  the 
task  of  circumventing  the  terrors  of  late  years.  Let  those 
who  come  after  us  realize  it,  as  we  who  have  lived  and  seen. 
Even  if  this  poor  writer  achieves  little  else  by  these  Memoirs, 
let  it  stand  out  that  it  is  not  merely  the  blemish  of  his 
time  that  he  chronicles,  but  something  of  its  nobility  and 
its  worth. 

We  have,  indeed,  much  to  be  grateful  for  as  a  Nation 
that  the  energy,  tact  and  memory  of  our  Royal  House,  as 
exemplified  by  Queen  Victoria,  Edward  VII.  and  King 
George,  are  hereditary  in  the  Prince  of  Wales,  for  whose 
public  career  one  cannot  say  too  much,  and  for  his  untiring 
devotion  to  duty.  Turn  to  the  picture  which  elsewhere  I 
give  of  the  Duke  of  Sussex,  and  ask  yourself  whether  a  man 
with  an  expression  like  that  could  attempt  to  achieve  the  mo- 
mentous matters  accomplished  by  His  Majesty  or  the  Prince. 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

To  all  who  knew  him,  Lord  Edward  Pelham  Clinton  was 
held  as  the  beau-ideal  of  a  gentleman.  In  fact  I  do  not 
know  which  man  more  influenced  my  life  in  this  respect, 
he  or  my  dear  father.  To  know  Clinton  was  to  esteem  and 
respect  him,  and  his  manner,  so  gentle  and  kindly,  had  in 
it  at  the  same  time  a  strength  and  character  of  its  own. 
Like  another  Duke's  son,  Lord  d'Arcy  Osborne,  although 
patrician  in  all  his  leanings  and  likings,  it  was  impossible  to 
detect  the  slightest  taint  of  side  or  swagger  about  him. 
I  have  passed  weeks  and  weeks  in  country  houses  where 
he  has  been,  and  very  often  was  his  guest  at  the  dinner- 
parties he  and  Lady  Edward  gave  at  their  house  in  Eccles- 
ton  Square,  and  countless  are  the  kindnesses  I  received  from 
him.  Not  the  least  was  his  confidence,  for  I  had  often 
been  at  a  dinner  where  I  was  the  only  one  present  not  offi- 
cially connected  with  the  Court,  and  yet  in  no  instance  can 
I  recall  that  the  absolute  openness  with  which  they  spoke 
was  thereby  in  any  way  affected.  This  confidence  with 
which  I  have  always  been  treated,  both  in  club  life  and  at 
dinner-parties,  though  it  is  beautiful  to  recall,  is  vastly 
distressing  to  the  value  of  one's  memoirs.  It  is  the  cause 
of  much  estoppage  even  as  one  begins  to  grow  interesting. 
But  one  sad,  tender  little  story  it  is  possible  to  relate  as  told 
me  by  his  lips ;  a  story  infinitely  pathetic  and  with  an 
enduring  pathos  of  its  own.  I  doubt  if  ever  Lord  Edward 
absolutely  got  over  his  mother's  leaving  her  home  and  her 
children.  I  think  that  that  event  influenced  his  whole  life 
and  perhaps  was  the  mainspring  of  the  quiet  dignity  in  it. 

Lord  Edward  Pelham  Clinton,  Colonel  of  the  Rifle 
Brigade,  and  Master  of  the  Household  to  Queen  Victoria 
and  for  a  period  to  the  late  King  Edward,  was  the  second 
son  of  the  fifth  Duke  of  Newcastle,  and  was  co-trustee  with 
Mr.  Gladstone  of  the  Clumber  estates  during  the  minority 

92 


COLONEL    LORD    EDWARD    PELHAM    CLINTON.   G.C.V.O. 

[To  face  page  92. 


Sovereignty  and  its  Entourage 

of  his  nephew  the  present  Duke.  His  father  married  a 
daughter  of  the  tenth  Duke  of  Hamilton  and  Brandon. 
That  beautiful  and  accomplished  woman  was  therefore 
the  daughter,  wife  and  mother  of  dukes — alas  for  the  story 
as  told  me  by  her  son !  He  said  that  one  day,  when  quite 
a  little  boy,  his  mother  took  him  out  with  her  in  the  carriage. 
After  driving  for  some  time  they  stopped  at  a  workman's 
cottage.  As  they  were  nearing  it  the  mother  turned  to 
her  child  and  kissed  and  kissed  him.  She  left  a  tear  upon 
his  face.  She  then  took  a  parcel  she  had  brought  for  the 
workman's  wife,  gave  it  to  the  woman,  and  walked  through 
the  cottage  and  out  of  the  back  door  and  so  down  the 
garden  and  across  the  fields  to  the  railway  station.  There 
she  entrained  and  was  joined  by  her  lover.  Even  after  years, 
and  many  of  them,  one  could  see  that  the  son  lived  in  this 
scene  as  if  it  were  yesterday. 

It  may  have  been  a  year  after  the  telling  of  this 
story  that  I  happened  to  write  to  him  from  Clayton 
Priory  where  I  was  then  stopping  with  General  Patton- 
Bethune.  By  return  of  post  came  a  letter  from  Lord 
Edward  saying  he  felt  sure  I  would  do  him  the  kindness  of 
driving  some  miles  distant  to  the  quiet  little  Sussex  church- 
yard where  his  mother  lay  buried.  Would  I  tell  him  in 
what  state  the  grave  was  and  make  him  any  suggestions  I 
could.  Accompanied  by  one  of  the  best  and  truest  friends 
man  ever  had,  Herbert  Patton-Bethune,  Major  in  the 
Fourth  Dragoon  Guards,  and  his  sister,  I  drove  over  as 
requested,  and  the  three  of  us  gave  ourselves  a  good  hour 
of  hard  work  in  the  weeding  of  that  grave.  I  remember 
that  there  were  chips  and  fragments  of  white  marble  all 
down  the  topmost  surface,  and  the  weeds,  deeply  rooted 
below,  had  cleft  the  jointures,  so  that  it  was  grievous 
work.  However,  we  decimated  those  weeds  and  left  in 

93 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

their  place  some  tender  tributes  of  the  beautiful  spring. 
Alas !  it  was  not  long  after  that  the  bright  girl  who  helped 
us  met  her  tragic  death  in  Hyde  Park,  as  shall  later  be 
recorded.  I  received  a  very  dear  letter  from  Lord  Edward 
when  he  heard  these  details  of  his  mother's  resting-place. 

I  had  an  estrangement  once  with  a  very  old  friend  who 
deputed  Lord  Edward  to  act  as  pacifier  between  us.  I 
shall  never  forget  his  tact  and  discretion  and  the  matter 
ended  with  all  that  he  desired  to  obtain.  For  some  time 
after  we  each  dubbed  him  the  dove,  as  he  had  certainly 
brought  the  olive  branch. 

Lord  Edward  had  a  wonderfully  correct  and  concise 
knowledge  of  many  things.  Not  by  any  means  in  a  learned 
way,  but  he  was  a  particularly  safe,  up-to-date  guide  on 
current  matters.  We  had  many  disputations,  and  it  was 
always  well  worth  while  to  be  worsted,  so  delicately  did  he 
administer  the  coup  de  grace.  He  would,  as  it  were,  put 
honey  in  your  mouth  while  stifling  you.  It  would  be 
something  like  this  :  "  Yes,  that  is  an  admirable  argument, 
I  doubt  if  I  have  ever  heard  a  better.  Indeed,  it  would  be 

quite  perfect  if  you  had  not  omitted  one  point "  It 

was  that  point  that  slew  me.  But,  even  at  the  risk  of 
egoism,  I  must  rehearse  how  on  one  occasion  I  did  for  him. 
Talking  to  me  of  his  sister-in-law,  Lady  Bateman-Scott,  he 
said  :  "  Don't  you  think  it  very  silly  of  her  to  sign  her 
surnames  Bateman  and  Scott  ?  *'  I  replied  :  "  No,  I  don't ; 
she's  got  two  baronetcies,  why  should  she  not  use  them  ?  " 
He  rejoined  :  "  No  one  else  does  it."  I  drew  him  on  by 
saying  :  "  No  one  else  does  it  ;  I  quite  admit  that."  Then 
Lord  Edward  turned  on  me  :  "  Then  why  should  she  ?  " 
"  Because,"  I  retorted,  "  no  one  else  has  the  right  ;  and  a 
right  is  no  less  real  because  it  is  exceptional."  "  Oh,  many 
others  have  the  right,"  he  said,  "  the  Edens  and  the 

94 


Sovereignty  and  its  Entourage 

Anstruthers,  for  instance,  have  each  two  baronetcies,  and 
they  don't  double  them  in  their  signatures."  "  Your  argu- 
ment would  be  admirable,  and  I  might  say  quite  perfect, 
if  you  had  not  forgotten  one  point.".  I  smiled,  for  "  These 
baronets  whom  you  mention  inherit  honours  of  one  and 
the  same  name,  and  they  could  no  more  reduplicate  them 
than  could  the  Duke  of  Argyll  who  has  two  dukedoms  of 
that  name,  whilst  the  Dukes  of  Buccleuch  and  Hamilton 
can  sign  for  their  double  duchies,  as  they  are  of  other  names 
— Hamilton  and  Brandon,  Buccleuch  and  Queensberry. 
If  peers  can  reduplicate  their .  honours,  why  should  not 
baronets,  and  it  does  not  make  it  less  of  a  right  because 
there  is  but  one  baronet  who  has  the  right  to  do  so.  The 
Scott  title  was  conferred  on  Sir  Joseph  Scott  in  1806. 
His  son,  Sir  Edward  Dolman  Scott,  married  the  eldest 
daughter  of  Sir  Hugh  Bateman  of  Hartington  Hall,  on  whom 
a  baronetcy  had  been  conferred  with  the  peculiar  limitation 
that  it  was  descendable  primarily  in  the  line  of  the  elder 
daughter,  and,  should  that  fail,  to  the  descendants  of  the 
second.  This  Bateman  baronetcy,  therefore,  reverted  to 
Sir  Francis,  third  Baronet  of  Great  Barr  and  second  of 
Hartington  Hall.  He  was,  therefore,  the  possessor  of  two 
baronetcies  of  different  names,  a  unique  distinction." 

On  the  death  in  1905  of  Sir  Edward  Dolman  Scott, 
sixth  and  fifth  Baronet,  the  male  lineage  of  Sir  Hugh 
Bateman  by  his  elder  daughter  was  extinct,  and  his  baronetcy 
therefore  passed  to  my  old  friend  Sir  Alexander  Fuller- 
Acland-Hood,  afterwards  Lord  St.  Audries.  Sir  Alexander 
was  also  in  remainder  to  the  Irish  barony  of  Bridport,  which 
at  one  time  seemed  very  likely  to  come  his  way.  He  was 
a  fine  guardsman-like  exemplification  of  the  Biblical  truism  : 
"  To  him  that  hath  shall  be  given." 

As  mentioned  elsewhere,  Lady  Edward  Clinton  was  the 

95 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

most  inimitable  raconteur  of  her  day.  She  was  a  daughter 
of  Sir  W.  E.  Cradock  Hartopp,  third  Baronet.  Through 
General  Fleetwood,  whose  wife  was  daughter  of  Cromwell, 
the  Cradock  Hartopps  were  descended  from  the  Lord 
Protector.  Lady  Edward's  sister  married  Lord  Walter 
Scott,  a  son  of  the  Duke  of  Buccleuch.  You  will  recollect 
that  the  Dukes  of  Buccleuch,  but  for  the  attainder,  would 
also  be  Dukes  of  Monmouth,  as  paternally  the  Scotts  derive 
from  the  ill-fated  son  of  Charles  II.  Consequently,  the 
children  of  Lord  and  Lady  Walter  Scott  are  equally 
descended  from  the  martyred  monarch  and  his  murderer. 

With  reference  to  the  elopement  of  Lord  Edward's 
mother,  I  was  once  told  by  a  peeress  that,  carrying  a  little 
bag  containing  her  own  personal  jewels,  she  was  proceeding 
across  the  Park  on  the  eve  of  leaving  her  home  for  ever, 
when  her  children  called  her  from  the  top  rooms :  "  Mother, 
Mother,  where  are  you  going  ?  Can't  you  take  us  ?  "  She 
turned  round,  stood  a  moment  and  then  called  up  :  "  Yes, 
come  along."  There  was  silence  for  a  moment  after  she 
had  told  me  this,  and  then  I  said  :  "  How  some  words  fulfil 
themselves — '  Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  Thou  hast 
perfected  praise.5 ' 

Oh,  when  I  think  of  it,  the  sorrows  some  women  endure  ! 
The  fact  that  so  many  men  and  women  have  outpoured 
their  troubles  to  me  has  no  little  sorrowed  my  life.  It 
has  always  made  me  older  than  my  years.  How  often 
have  I  marked  a  woman,  so  calm  and  self-restrained  amid 
scenes  of  ball  or  banquet,  the  brilliancy  of  diamonds  around 
her  brow,  the  shadow  of  sorrows  within  her  soul.  Such 
women  do  not  wear  their  anguish  on  their  sleeve,  and  for 
them  I  cannot  but  think  that  there  will  be  somewhere 
beyond  the  glimmer  of  the  fitful  stars  a  land  of  love  which 
shall  requite  them  for  the  loveless  life. 

96 


IX 

THE  PASSING  SHADOW  AND  THE  LINGERING  LIGHT 

BEACONSFIELD    AND    SALISBURY 

Recollections  of  Lord  Salisbury,  Arlington  Street.  My  Godspeed  to  Curzon.  Lord 
Houghton  presents  me  to  Dizzy.  Remembrances  of  Lord  Houghton  and 
his  son,  Lord  Crewe.  Lord  Lamington.  A  Scotch  Judge  turned  out  of  an 
Hotel  for  Immorality.  Dizzy's  unique  Habiliments.  His  lavender-tasselled  Cane. 
A  Portrait  of  Lady  Salisbury.  The  Statesman  speaks  to  Time,  the  Poet  to 
Eternity.  Disraeli's  opinion  of  Poetry — the  one  Gift  of  the  Gods.  Lord 
Beaconsfield  on  the  Limitations  of  an  Educated  Public.  Lewis  Carroll's  estimate 
of  Poets.  Beaconsfield' s  great  Triumph  in  the  Lords.  A  Splendid  Spectacle. 
No  Semblance  of  Newness.  The  Sublime  Antiquity  of  the  Sphinx. 

BEACONSFIELD,  Salisbury,  Gladstone !  Magical 
names  from  the  maelstrom  of  the  past  !  When  one 
saw  these  men  in  the  fullness  of  their  influence,  could  one 
imagine  our  England  bereft  of  them  ?  Those  acclaim- 
ing crowds,  that  massed  concourse  that  thronged  to  mark 
them  come  and  go  ...  where  are  they  now,  alas,  where 
are  they  now  ?  The  passing  shadow  and  the  lingering 
light !  Death  passeth  as  the  shadow  of  life  :  the  soul 
bides,  which  is  life's  lingering  light. 

The  man  of  many  memories  need  never  be  alone.  Beau- 
tiful things,  strong  things  and  foreseeing  come  to  him  as 
voices  of  the  past.  He  is  seldom  lonely  or  alone. 

Walks  with  Browning  ;  talks  with  Swinburne  ;  daring 
disputations  with  Mark  Pattison ;  listenings  to  Owen ; 
guest  of  Salisbury  at  Hatfield  and  of  Gladstone  at 

97  7 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

Hawarden — what  memories  they  bring  to  furnish  these 
ignoble  days  1  Would  to  Heaven  that  I  could  also  add 
these  few  words  that  indeed  mean  so  much — and  of 
Beaconsfield  at  Hughenden.  Alas  and  alas !  although  it  is 
a  proud  recollection  to  have  spoken  with  him  in  London, 
it  was  never  my  happy  lot  to  see  that  unique  immortality 
as  he  divested  himself  of  the  politician  and  guised  himself 
as  a  squire. 

It  is  indeed  strange  and  noteworthy  that  these  three 
men  who  dominated  political  opinion  in  the  declining 
years  of  Queen  Victoria's  lengthy  reign  had  an  H  for  the 
initial  letter  of  the  country  seat  of  each.  It  is  also  note- 
worthy that  the  two  chief  antagonists  had  the  initial  C  for 
their  London  homesteads,  Beaconsfield  in  Curzon  Street, 
and  Gladstone  in  Carlton  House  Terrace.  In  my  under- 
graduate days  Lord  Salisbury  was  in  a  street  somewhere  off 
Portland  Place  ;  I  rather  think  it  was  Mansfield  Street. 
Thence  he  migrated  to  the  beautiful  house  he  occupied 
till  his  death  in  Arlington  Street.  It  is  one  of  the  many 
kindnesses  received  by  this  writer  from  Lady  Salisbury 
that  he  was  invited,  not  only  to  the  big  things  such  as 
Foreign  Office  receptions,  but  to  those  sometimes  very 
small  At  Homes  in  Arlington  Street,  where  the  great  man, 
who  for  so  long  wielded  our  Imperial  destinies  strenuously 
as  Foreign  Minister  and  sagaciously  as  Premier,  was  visible 
in  moments  least  encumbered. 

Speaking  of  Arlington  Street,  it  is  memorable  to  me  that 
I  drove  Lord  Curzon  in  my  stanhope  to  Arlington  Street 
for  his  first  interview  with  Lord  Salisbury,  an  interview 
which  resulted  in  Curzon's  gaining  the  first  step  in  his 
great  political  career,  his  appointment  as  Secretary  (unpaid) 
to  Salisbury.  My  last  words  to  the  man  who  is  now 
Foreign  Secretary  in  these  momentous  times,  as  hte  agilely 


The  Passing  Shadow  and  the  Lingering  Light 

descended  over  the  wheel,  were  "  Good  luck  be  with  you 
and  God-speed ! " 

Dear  old  Lord  Houghton  (all  gentle  memories  be  with 
him  !  Was  there  ever  a  man  with  such  crisp  kindliness  of 
heart  ?)  was  well  aware  that  one  of  my  surging,  timorous 
ambitions  was  to  stand  face  to  face  with  the  great  Disraeli. 
And  so,  in  a  moment  all  together  unexpected,  I  was 
presented  to  the  great  man.  He  was  slowly,  and  with  much 
ceremony,  making  a  sort  of  Imperial  progress  through  the 
crowded  salons  of  a  Foreign  Office  reception.  Around 
him  the  envied  stars  and  radiant  ribbons  from  all  lands : 
himself  a  being  impenetrable  and  apart,  a  sardonic  figure 
that  riveted  the  eye  and  gave  it  rest  by  its  very  solemnity 
and  quiet.  He  halted  for  a  moment,  gave  me  a  quick 
look  and  said,  "  Lord  Houghton  tells  me  that  you  are  a 
young  poet.  You  must  travel,  and  when  you  have  done 
travelling  you  must  travel  again.  Go  south,  go  east. 
The  East  is  the  land  for  poets."  And  with  that  the  great 
statesman  slightly  bent  and  passed  on  to  other  thoughts 
and  greater  men.  "  He  said  more  to  you  than  he'd  say  to 
most,"  said  Lord  Houghton's  kindly  voice  in  my  ear.  How 
little  I  thought  then  that  years  afterwards,  when  this  kind 
man  who  had  done  so  much  to  rescue  Keats  from  oblivion, 
and  indeed  might  be  termed  the  poets'  friend,  had  been 
gathered  to  his  fathers,  I  should  spend  an  hour  watching 
the  dawn  from  the  upper  deck  of  the  Irish  mail  steamer 
talking  to  his  son,  the  present  Lord  Crewe,  then  en  route 
to  take  the  oath  at  Dublin  Castle  on  his  appointment  as 
Lord  Lieutenant.  This  was  in  the  early  days  of  Glad- 
stone's Home  Rule  struggles.  Lord  Crewe^  or  as  he  then 
was  Lord  Houghton,  expected  hostility  from  the  Irish 
landocracy  .  .  .  and  he  got  it. 

But  the  Viceroy  got  more,  for  all  the  odium  of  his 

99  7* 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

onerous  post — he  got  an  Earldom.  The  Grand  Old  Man 
had  a  great  partiality  for  the  smart,  handsome,  well- 
groomed  son  of  his  old  friend,  and  the  timely  death  of 
the  late  Lord  Crewe,  Houghton's  uncle,  gave  opportunity 
for  the  revival  of  that  title.  Of  this  eccentric  peer  I  shall 
have  much  to  say  later  on  concerning  a  visit  to  him  at 
Crewe  Hall  some  years  before  his  death.  Disraeli's 
gratitude  for  all  that  the  first  Lord  Lytton  had  done  for 
him  in  countenance  and  friendship  at  a  time  when  both 
were  needed  bore  fruit  in  the  Viceroy alty  of  India  and 
the  Earldom  which  he  subsequently  bestowed  on  the  son 
of  his  old  friend.  Gladstone  did  much  the  same  to  the 
present  Lord  Crewe  in  remembrance  of  old  days.  It  is 
not  often  that  the  sons  of  notable  men  are  capable  of  such 
advancement.  It  is  happy  reading  and  splendid  incentive 
to  youth  to  find  that  when  such  hereditary  talent  exists  it 
is  recognized  and  honoured. 

To  these  instances  may  be  added  the  present  Lord 
Lamington  and  Lord  Tennyson.  Both  of  these  men, 
sons  of  distinguished  sires,  have  represented  their  Sove- 
reigns overseas.  Lord  Lamington  is  one  of  the  kindliest 
of  men,  and  I  value  the  friendship  he  has  shown  me 
since  the  days  when  we  were  together  at  the  House.  It 
is  one  of  the  many  gaucheries  actuated  by  the  Unionist 
Party  that  a  man  of  his  county  position,  possessions  and 
endowments,  should  have  been  passed  over  for  the  Lord 
Lieutenancy  of  his  County,  especially  remembering  that 
he  so  ably  represented  the  Crown  abroad,  and  as  such  one 
would  suppose  would  be  exceptionally  eligible  for  the 
position  regarding  which  he  was  slighted.  These  are  the 
kind  of  faux  pas  which  for  many  years  have  undermined 
and  deteriorated  the  prestige  of  a  once  great  and  honourable 
Party. 

100 


The  Passing  Shadow  and  the  Lingering  Light 

To  return  to  the  first  Lord  Houghton,  whose  friendship 
for  me  was  so  kindly  and  so  helpful.  It  may  be  added 
that  during  the  later  years  of  his  life  he  travelled  a  good 
deal  accompanied  by  his  sister,  the  Dowager  Lady  Galway, 
widow  of  the  sixth  Viscount,  and  as  he  told  me  was  the 
subject  of  a  good  deal  of  suspicion  amongst  ignorant  people 
in  out-of-the-way  places  when  it  was  realized  that  the 
ladyship  with  him  was  not  Lady  Houghton. 

The  Mackintosh  of  Mackintosh  told  me  an  excellent 
story  which  tallies  with  this.  You  must  know  that  until 
recent  years,  when  a  Scotch  lawyer  (whom  we  will  call  Mr. 
Mclntyre  of  Glenlawe)  was  elevated  to  the  Bench,  he  was 
not  called  Mr.  Justice  Mclntyre,  as  with  us,  but,  taking  his 
title  from  his  place,  he  appeared  as  Lord  Glenlawe,  yet  his 
unfortunate  wife  was  still  only  Mrs.  Mclntyre.  A  certain 
well-known  Scotch  Judge  and  his  wife  went  abroad,  and 
of  course  appeared  in  the  hotel  lists  as  Lord  Glenlawe 
and  Mrs.  Mclntyre.  The  Mackintosh,  seeing  him  next 
year,  said,  "  I  suppose  you're  off  to  Switzerland  soon  !  " 
"  Switzerland  !  "  rejoined  the  Judge,  "  I'll  never  set  foot 
there  again.  I  was  turned  out  of  three  hotels  for  im- 
morality. Bonnie  Scotland's  guid  eno'  for  me ! "  I 
believe  that  this  Judge's  hapless  experience  was  the  cause  of 
altering  the  name  and  precedence  of  Judges'  wives  in 
Scotland.  It  is  certainly  an  extraordinary  paradox  that 
a  woman  in  her  efforts  to  preserve  her  good  name  should 
resort  to  abandoning  it,  and  to  keep  it  unsullied  should  use 
another  ! 

This  is  a  long  digression  from  Disraeli,  but  one  must 
not  neglect  the  lesser  stars  for  sake  of  one  surpassing  planet. 

Considering  the  millinery  flamboyance  of  his  youth, 
Disraeli's  later  days  show  marvellous  self-suppression  as  to 
colour.  I  may  say  that  I  have  seen  him  hundreds  of  times 

101 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

in  the  Commons.  One  session  I  heard  him  every  time 
he  opened  his  mouth,  and  I  cannot  recall  any  occasion  on 
which  his  attire  was  superlatively  out  of  the  ordinary. 
But  on  Sundays  somehow  he  seemed  to  break  loose.  It 
is  many  a  time  that,  as  we  all  issued  from  the  Chapel  Royal, 
St.  James'  Palace,  I  happened  to  be  behind  him  as  he 
leisurely  walked  up  St.  James'  to  Mayfair.  Leaning  on  the 
arm  of  Monty  Corrie,  the  Secretary  whom  he  afterwards 
recommended  for  the  Barony  of  Rowton,  he  presented  an 
engrossing  figure.  Sometimes  a  complete  frockcoat  suit 
of  light  brown  ;  oftener  lavender  trousers  with  gloves  and 
tie  to  match  and  a  dainty  tassel  on  his  cane  of  the  same 
colour,  blue-black  coat  and  waistcoat  of  a  lighter  lavender 
completed  his  costume,  jauntily  crowned  with  a  grey 
topper  and  black  band.  You  could  not  mistake  the  man. 
He  did  not  seem  in  the  least  incongruous,  and  had  a  dignity 
and  an  aloofness  which  made  his  appearance  a  remembrance. 
This  writer  is  inclined  to  think  that  Disraeli's  career 
gained  rather  than  lost  by  the  maledictions  hurled  against 
him.  In  early  days  any  brick,  however  miry,  was  good 
enough  to  cast  at  a  man  so  apparently  opposite  to  the 
instincts  of  an  Englishman.  The  Court  also  was  against 
him,  for  it  is  no  secret  to  record  that  not  the  least  of 
Disraeli's  triumphs  was  his  complete  annihilation  of  that 
bequest  of  distrust  which  the  Prince  Consort  bequeathed 
to  Queen  Victoria.  The  statesman's  personal  influence 
over  his  Sovereign  absolutely  upset  all  the  warnings  which 
at  first  dominated  her  dealings  with  him.  And  with  this 
turn  of  the  tide  men  ignored  the  epigrams  and  forgot  the 
insults  which  for  so  many  years  had  been  hurled  at  this 
strange  man.  One  of  the  wittiest  of  these  denouncements 
levelled  across  the  floor  of  the  House  was  that  of 
"  descendant  of  the  impenitent  thief "  ;  and  in  truth  it 

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The  Passing  Shadow  and  the  Lingering  Light 

was  telling  in  its  way,  for  whatever  else  you  could  imagine 
of  Disraeli,  no  brain  could  possibly  picture  him  as  peni- 
tent. One  can  imagine  Gladstone  on  his  knees  before 
the  Almighty,  begging  remission  for  some  intellectual 
misunderstanding,  and  even  beseeching  that  Almighty's 
countenance  for  some  conscientious  turn-coatery.  But 
Disraeli  was  essentially  too  much  of  a  courtier  to  burden  the 
gods  with  details.  It  was  possible  for  the  Immortals  to 
find  out  for  themselves  if  so  they  wisted ;  it  is  plainly  no 
part  of  the  politician  to  invite  criticism. 

Those  who  witnessed  Lord  Salisbury's  later  years  of 
impressive  superiority  can  barely  realize  the  secondary 
place  which  he  took  during  the  lifetime  of  Lord  Beacons- 
field.  There  are  tables  of  precedence  as  set  forth  by  the 
subservience  of  heralds ;  there  are  tables  also  dictated  by 
the  ordinances  of  common  sense.  A  dozen  times  might 
Salisbury  be  the  descendant  of  Burleigh,  and  serve  Victoria 
as  his  ancestor  served  Elizabeth,  but  that  and  even  Hatfield 
was  as  nothing  when  he  walked  side  by  side  with  a  man 
whose  genius  and  a  career  of  dauntless  audacity  held  and 
fascinated  the  public  eye.  It  was  thus  these  two  men 
appeared  after  the  Treaty  of  Berlin  and  the  "  Peace  with 
Honour  "  which  gave  them  each  the  coveted  Garter. 

In  after  years,  when  Salisbury's  great  talents  were 
undimmed  by  a  greater  brilliance,  it  was  even  then  difficult 
to  disentangle  the  man  from  his  historic  past.  Neither 
Beaconsfield  nor  Gladstone  needed  a  Hatfield  behind  them, 
but  with  Salisbury  it  was  impossible  to  get  away  from  that 
Hatfield  or  to  consider  his  claims  apart  from  the  heritage 
of  the  Cecils.  God  forgive  me  if  I  minimize  the  great 
qualities  which  he  showed  and  the  great  part  which  he 
played  in  political  life.  I  speak  but  as  a  humble  bystander, 
yet  as  a  bystander  at  the  man's  own  fireside,  and  I  tell 

103 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

you  as  I  think,  and  you  must  take  it  at  its  worth.  When 
all  is  said  and  done  my  heart  returns  to  what  his  devoted 
wife  said  to  me,  words  which  I  have  never  forgotten,  and 
before  I  give  them  I  am  fain  to  depict  for  the  future  of 
time  Lady  Salisbury's  portrait  as  she  really  was.  In  a 
sentence  one  might  say  that  she  was  a  woman  who  never 
forgot  the  single-heartedness  of  her  up-bringing  in  the 
splendour  of  her  surroundings.  What  I  loved  about  her 
was  that  she  had  the  brain  power  as  well  as  the  determina- 
tion to  render  her  husband's  life  appropriate  to  the  dignity 
of  his  position.  And  so  Lord  Salisbury's  barouche  and 
pair,  with  its  blue  rosettes  and  dignified  panelling,  was 
among  the  very  smartest  in  London,  a  London,  I  beg  you 
to  forgive  me  for  saying,  which  was  smart  without  vul- 
garity and  ornate  without  ostentation  ;  when  you  could 
be  dressed  splendidly  with  sobriety  and  a  woman  had  not 
to  exhibit  her  knees  to  be  chic. 

Lady  Salisbury  said  to  me,  "  Do  you  know,  I  think 
that  I  am  the  luckiest  woman  that  ever  lived.  I  have 
a  great  and  distinguished  husband,  who  has  given  his 
life  to  the  service  of  his  country.  From  days  of  great 
anxiety  the  way  has  been  opened  for  him  till  he  has  been 
enabled  to  represent  his  country  with  opportunities  of 
service  exactly  as  dictated  by  his  earliest  ambitions.  I 
have  children  to  be  proud  of,  and  their  historic  home  is 
a  joy  and  a  pride  to  me.  Now  don't  you  think  I  am  a 
fortunate  woman  ?  And  I  have  the  love  of  all  these, 
what  could  I  more  ?  " 

The  great  Premier,  then  a  struggling  second  son,  met 
the  lady  who  was  to  be  his  wife  in  a  small  country  church. 
He  had  aimlessly  sauntered  in,  and,  where  he  entered, 
there  he  stood,  riveted  by  the  strains  echoed  from  the 
organ.  He  awaited  the  descent  of  the  player  to  tender 

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The  Passing  Shadow  and  the  Lingering  Light 

his  gratitude,  and  it  turned  out  to  be  a  young  girl.  That 
was  how  k  commenced.  In  both  senses  there  was  harmony 
from  the  beginning,  and  it  was  not  long  before  the  daughter 
of  Baron  Alderson  was  engaged  to  Lord  Robert  Cecil. 
Their  married  life  was  passed  for  some  time  in  an  off-street 
from  the  Strand,  and  there  the  future  Premier  added  to 
his  slender  income  by  contributions  to  the  Saturday  Review 
and  other  papers  until  the  unexpected  death  of  Lord  Cran- 
borne,  his  elder  brother,  offered  opportunities  for  a 
wider  career. 

This  is  not  the  only  story  this  writer  has  concerning 
the  organ  and  the  Alderson  family.  Not  so  very  long 
ago  he  let  his  domicile  to  Sir  William  and  Lady  Humphrey. 
The  latter  was  sister  of  Lady  Salisbury  and  very  like  her. 
It  may  be  added  that  most  of  the  sitting  rooms  opened 
into  a  lounge  hall,  devised  in  a  mediaeval  fashion,  wherein 
was  my  beloved  friend,  the  organ,  eloquent  intimate  of 
many  years. 

As  I  remained  in  the  vicinity  some  days  after  my  new 
tenants  took  possession,  they  asked  me  to  come  and  play 
the  instrument  to  them.  I  said  that  I  would  not  come  to 
dinner  as  they  kindly  suggested.  "  When  Sir  William  is 
smoking  his  cigar  in  one  of  the  off-rooms,  I'll  come  in  and 
play  by  myself  in  the  gallery,  and  you  needn't  listen  more 
than  you  like."  This  I  did  next  evening,  and  after  play- 
ing for  some  time  I  made  a  slight  pause,  but  there  was 
not  the  ghost  of  "  How  beautiful !  "  or  "  Do  play  that 
again  !  "  or  anything  seasonable  such  as  any  genuine  soul 
needs  as  food  for  inspiration.  There  was  a  deadly  and 
uncanny  silence.  I  said  to  myself,  "  They  are  too  riveted 
for  words,"  and  proceeded.  After  a  while  I  gave  them 
another  chance.  There  was  still  the  ungracious  silence. 
I  thereupon  stole  quietly  to  the  smoking  room,  and  there  I 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

discovered  Sir  William  asleep  with  his  mouth  serenely 
open  and  her  ladyship  slumberous  with  her  mouth  severely 
shut.  Whereupon  I  took  my  hat,  stick  and  cloak  and, 
true  to  Longfellow's  poem, 

"  Folded  my  tent  like  the  Arabi 
And  as  silently  stole  away." 

This  is  what  subsequently  happened  as  told  me  next 
day.  Sir  William  woke  up,  rubbed  his  eyes  and  said,  "  My 
dear,  was  there  any  music  or  did  I  dream  it  ?  "  She, 
waking  ditto,  said,  "  Yes,  I  fancied  I  dreamt  it ;  perhaps 
it  was  a  band  in  the  road."  Then  suddenly  Sir  William 
said,  "  My  dear,  didn't  we  ask  that  man  in  to  play  the 
organ  ?  Where  can  he  be  ?  ':  "  Yes !  "  said  Lady 
Humphrey.  "  Go  at  once  and  find  him  !  I  remember 
it  all  now  ;  he  was  playing  the  organ  to  us  ;  see  if  he  is 
out  there."  After  Sir  William's  unsuccessful  search  his  wife 
said,  "  Do  you  know,  he's  such  an  absent-minded  man 
that  I  feel  it  quite  possible  he's  forgotten  that  he's  let 
the  house  to  us  and  has  gone  to  bed  just  as  usual.  Go 
at  once  and  look  in  my  room."  When  that  was  also  unsuc- 
cessful, she  said,  "  Perhaps  that  was  not  his  room.  Go 
and  look  in  all  the  others."  There  was  naturally  much 
hilarity  next  day  when  all  this  was  rehearsed  to  us. 

I  think  I  may  emphatically  say  that  everything  con- 
nected with  poetry  had  a  fascination  for  Lord  Beaconsfield. 
As  an  instance  of  this  I  may  state  from  personal 
knowledge  the  eagerness  with  which  he  found,  I  may  say 
unearthed,  my  life-long  friend,  the  late  Lord  Byron,  and 
this  because  the  latter  bore  the  name  and  was  connected 
with  a  poet  endeared  to  Disraeli.  The  great  statesman 
was  himself  very  near  to  being  a  poet,  a  seer  .  .  . 
dramatic,  tragic,  mystic,  Olympic.  A  bard  with  thunder 

106 


The  Passing  Shadow  and  the  Lingering  Light 

more  than  melody,  but  for  all  that,  a  poet.  But  the  gods 
who  so  plenteously  endowed  him  led  him  not  thus  far. 
Perhaps  his  heart  found  entrance  at  the  gates  but  utterance 
failed  him  at  the  end.  Great  as  is  his  fame  and  world- 
wide his  life's  work,  it  might  have  indeed  been  better 
for  the  endurance  of  his  name  had  the  power  of  song 
been  his. 

The  statesman  reaps  his  harvest  in  his  life,  the  poet 
at  his  death  !  How  few  of  the  educated  have  I  met  who 
could  clearly  tell  me  of  the  great  Chatham,  but  who  is 
there  unaware  of  Shelley,  blind  Milton,  or  Wordsworth, 
and  even  Goldsmith  and  Keats  ?  for  the  statesman  speaks 
but  to  Time,  while  the  poet  speaks  to  Eternity. 

Lord  Beaconsfield  had  the  greatest  veneration  for  the 
sonnet.  "  The  best  vehicle  for  thought,"  as  he  said,  and 
agreed  with  my  suggestion  that  if  the  sonnet  be  the  vehicle 
for  thought,  lyrics  are  its  wings.  "  I  have  all  my  life 
had  the  greatest  desire,  I  might  say  ambition,  to  write  a 
good  sonnet,"  he  said  to  me,  and  added,  "  I  have  made 
many  attempts,  but  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that, 
although  conceivably  it  might  be  possible  to  write  what 
might  even  be  termed  a  poem  without  inspiration,  this 
would  be  unthinkable  in  the  case  of  a  sonnet."  "  But," 
I  tremulously  hazarded,  "  your  great  life  has  been  charged 
with  inspirations  ;  would  they  not  also  lead  you  as  regards 
the  sonnet  ?  ':  I  shall  never  forget  his  reply  and  the 
force  with  which  it  was  uttered.  "  If  men  would  more 
frequently  follow  the  inspiration  of  the  moment,  there 
would  be  more  of  achievement.  But  inspiration  of 
this  kind  is  not  for  poetry.  For  such  things  a  man 
must  be  born  a  poet,  and  no  poet  who  is  wise  would  thus 
waste  his  inspirations :  certainly  not  in  politics.  Poetry 
is  the  one  divine  gift  of  the  gods." 

107 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

He  was  much  interested  in  the  story  of  the  chance 
finding  of  Blanco  White's  great  sonnet,  by  some  considered 
the  finest  in  the  language.  And  on  my  asking  did  it  not 
surprise  him  to  find  how  few  people  know  what  a  sonnet 
is,  even  some  of  the  dictionaries  describing  it  as  a  "  short 
poem,"  the  great  man  turned  sharply  on  me  and  exclaimed, 
"  Is  there  ever  anything  surprising  in  the  ignorance  of  the 
public  ?  "  I  ventured,  "  But,  Sir,  an  educated  public  !  " 
He  gave  me  a  sardonic  smile  as  he  said,  "  An  educated 
public  !  You  are  last  from  Oxford  and  should  know  its 
limits." 

When  Lord  Beaconsfield  gave  me  this  delicious  open- 
ing regarding  the  limitations  of  the  Don,  I  should  not 
have  been  human  had  I  not  given  him  this  reminiscence 
of  undergraduate  days.  My  tutor,  Lewis  Carroll,  when 
he  was  first  told  (not  indeed  by  me  .  .  .  that  I  never 
dared  !)  that  I  was  endeavouring  to  edge  up  to  the  Muses, 
nearly  had  a  fit,  and  told  me  that  he  felt  pains  and  spasms 
for  days.  He  said  that  for  one  man  the  poets  had  saved, 
there  were  millions  they  had  damned,  and  that  moreover 
if  there  were  any  imbecile  inclined  to  be  an  ass,  he  was 
certain  to  be  a  young  poet.  This  cheerful  counsel  remained 
with  me  and  I  made  a  resolution  that  I  would  never 
knowingly  put  myself  in  the  way  to  meet  the  Muse,  but 
that,  if  the  maiden  came  out  of  her  way  to  conciliate  me, 
I  would  take  her  to  my  bosom.  That  was  but  human. 
This  afterwards  happened,  and,  singing  as  she  bade  me, 
the  stave  fell  into  the  hands  of  Lewis  Carroll.  To  my 
wonder  he  was  delighted  and  prophesied  such  things  for 
it,  which  have  mostly  been  fulfilled,  as  the  poem  still 
lives.  But  the  gist  of  the  matter  lies  in  this,  that  after 
Lewis  Carroll  had  sealed  it  with  his  unexpected  approba- 
tion, I  faintly  murmured,  "  I  wonder  what  Sharp  would 

108 


The  Passing  Shadow  and  the  Lingering  Light 

say  !  "  Professor  Sharp,  be  it  known,  held  the  position 
never  filled  by  one  of  imagination,  to  wit,  the  Oxford 
Professorship  of  Poetry.  "  Look  here  ! "  said  Lewis 
Carroll,  quite  angrily,  "  if  you're  going  to  ask  what  Pro- 
fessors and  such  like  say,  you'd  better  give  up  poetry  and 
become  an  Oxford  Don." 

The  quiet  precision  with  which  Lord  Beaconsfield  spoke, 
each  word  weighed  without  any  betrayal  of  consideration, 
was  one  of  the  many  marvels  of  the  man.  One  realized 
a  great  force,  a  great  mental  force,  behind  the  words,  and 
a  strong  sincerity  which  even  the  manosuvres  of  his  political 
career  could  not  in  any  way  weaken  or  dispel.  It  has  been 
a  frequent  wonder  to  me  whether  the  great  work  of  his 
life  or  the  personality  of  the  worker  was  mostly  responsible 
for  the  end  which  crowned  a  noble  career.  It  is  a  difficult 
question.  All  that  perhaps  can  be  said  is  that  there  has 
always  been  something  distinctive  in  appearance  in  men 
distinguished  in  the  public  imagination.  I  will  mention 
no  names,  for  the  reader  can  supply  them  from  his  own 
knowledge,  of  men  who  have  had  considerable  power  in 
literature  or  politics,  and  yet  there  is  nothing  distinctive, 
nor  may  I  add  distinguished,  in  their  appearance  ;  and 
this  explains  the  fact  that  they  stop  short  while  all  but 
reaching  the  widespread  prerogatives  of  the  Great.  What 
did  not  Wellington  owe  to  his  appearance  ?  And  Nelson, 
and  Gladstone  ?  And  this  is  superlatively  true  of  Beacons- 
field,  I  thought,  as  I  looked  on  the  man,  standing  so  quietly 
among  his  own  Penates,  his  arm  negligently  resting  on  the 
mantelshelf,  the  posture  pregnant  with  dignity  and  ease. 
I  thought  as  I  looked  upon  him  :  What  need  is  there  of 
labelling  this  man  ?  He  is  himself  the  evidence  of  dis- 
tinctness and  distinction. 

As  we  spoke,  beneath  us  the  interminable  traffic  of 

109 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

London's  season  at  its  zenith  passed  to  and  fro.  Under 
the  great  green  trees  of  Hyde  Park  the  spangled  lights  of 
innumerable  carriages  met  and  mingled  with  the  passing 
night.  How  many  were  there  of  all  the  millions  to  whom 
Beaconsfield's  name  was  as  a  household  word  who  could 
have  conjectured  these  quiet  thoughts  of  his  amid  the 
cares  and  responsibilities  as  Pilot  of  our  world-wide 
Empire ! 

It  is  less  self-assertion  than  gratitude  that  bids  me  recall 
the  countless  exquisite  pictures  I  have  seen  in  life  ;  pic- 
tures impossible  to  forget  and  eternal  in  their  influence. 
The  aged  Queen  Victoria  in  her  brilliant  Jubilee,  a  scene 
gorgeous  as  a  garden  and  yet  agleam  as  with  the  dewdrops 
of  tears.  What  havocs  of  Time  lay  behind  her,  what 
uneaseful  days  would  be  hers  even  to  the  end !  But  no 
picture  stands  out  so  vividly  in  memory  as  does  the  figure 
of  Beaconsfield  set  and  framed  in  the  brilliancy  of  the 
Lords  as  he  made  his  great  statement  on  the  Eastern  Ques- 
tion. Oh,  believe  me,  it  was  not  the  man  alone,  nor  even 
the  gilded  chamber  wherein  he  spoke,  nor  the  mixture  of 
Norman  and  nouveaux  riches  who  listened,  that  fulfilled 
the  picture  in  its  glory.  The  past  added  as  much  to  that 
splendid  scene  as  did  the  present.  I  could  see  him  in  the 
old  days  battling  single-handed  against  opprobrium  and 
unbelief.  The  man  had  everything  against  him  except 
his  own  indomitable  will.  And  now,  through  struggles 
manifold,  he  stood,  the  cynosure  of  the  eyes  of  the  world-,  in 
a  chamber  crowded  from  floor  to  ceiling,  the  Royalty  of 
his  land  on  the  cross-benches  and  the  beauty  of  England 
in  its  galleries.  Was  there  ever  so  proud  a  moment  for  the 
rose- of  success  that  had  struggled  to  blossom  above  its 
thorn  ? 

And  what  of  the  man  ?  Oh,  that  I  had  a  voice  to  reach 

no 


The  Passing  Shadow  and  the  Lingering  Light 

afar,  so  that  this  that  is  in  me  should  be  realized  in  you, 
as  for  years  it  has  been  certain  in  me,  that  the  greatness  in 
life  consists  less  in  the  work  that  achieves  it  than  in  the 
manner  with  which  that  greatness  is  worn.  Some  of  you 
who  read  me  have  a  longing  for  greatness.  You  think 
how  fine  a  thing  it  would  be,  and  how  much  it  would  adorn 
you.  Have  you  ever  thought,  whether,  if  greatness  were 
thrust  on  you,  your  nature  has  that  sister-greatness  which 
would  enable  you  to  adorn  it  ?  Beaconsfield,  as  he  stood 
in  that  crowded  House,  seemed  born  for  the  dramatic  part 
he  played.  There  was  neither  acting  nor  pose  about  him. 
He  was  the  mouthpiece  of  the  moment,  and  his  tones 
were  certain  and  clear  and  resonant,  reaching  from  the 
fathoms  of  a  soul  that  nothing  could  daunt,  dissuade  or 
astound.  He  looked  and  spoke  as  if  that  was  his  hereditary 
part.  There  was  no  semblance  of  newness  about  him 
It  was  the  sublime  antiquity  of  the  Sphinx. 


CHAPTER  X 

LORD  SALISBURY'S  FOREIGN  POLICY 

Ramblings  in  the  Central  Empires.  Reminiscences  of  the  Roumanian  Sovereigns 
and  my  visits  to  them.  I  meet  Baron  von  Eckardstein,  late  First  Secretary, 
German  Embassy.  His  Social  Reminiscences.  His  Book  and  a  Statement 
therein.  A  Talk  with  Lord  Sydenham.  His  Lordship's  Letter.  Concise 
Synopsis  of  the  Europe  of  the  Nineties.  A  Diplomatist's  View  of  the 
Policies  of  the  Day.  The  Perilous  Agilities  of  the  Amateur  Diplomatist. 

T  ORD  SALISBURY'S  foreign  policy  always  interested 
»-*  me  :  Gladstone's  in  itself  never  did ;  its  results 
were  another  matter.  One  felt  that  Salisbury's  was  the 
work  of  a  thinker  and  a  diplomatist :  Gladstone  had  little 
of  the  diplomatist,  and  with  him  foreign  affairs  had  been 
no  life  study.  Between  the  foreign  policy  of  Salisbury 
and  Gladstone  was  all  that  which  differentiates  Mind 
and  Emotion.  Several  massacres  would  hardly  have 
stirred  Salisbury  from  a  policy  set  and  sensible,  whereas 
one  murder  would  obsess  Gladstone  to  the  removal  of 
frontiers. 

You  were  scarcely  conscious  of  Lord  Salisbury's  capacity 
for  satire  and  sardonic  epigram  when  you  saw  him  in  his 
own  rooms.  He  always  struck  me  as  more  of  a  thinker 
than  a  satirist — essentially  a  man  of  thought.  To  my 
mind  his  real  self  was  less  satire  than  thought.  In  every 
sense  he  was  a  man  of  weight,  and  his  conclusions  carried 
conviction.  I  doubt  if  any  Foreign  Secretary  of  recent 
decades  carried  more  weight  in  the  Council  Chambers  of 
the  world  than  did  this  descendant  of  the  Cecils,  and  this 

112 


Lord  Salisbury's  Foreign  Policy 

position  he  upheld  with  such  dignity  that  one  felt  that  the 
influence  was  inborn  rather  than  acquired. 

During  Lord  Salisbury's  regime  the  Near  East  was 
always  one  of  the  most  persistent  of  political  perplexities. 
It  was  Lord  Salisbury  who  first  recognized  and  gave 
prominence  to  the  claims  of  Roumania  to  be  considered 
a  factor  of  importance.  Roumania  for  herself  in  the  most 
unforeseen  and  romantic  manner  effected  the  rest.  Under 
the  late  King,  she  helped  to  save  Russia  at  a  critical  time 
in  the  Russo-Turkish  War.  The  Russian  Army,  after  the 
second  defeat  before  Plevna,  was  baffled  and  discouraged ; 
the  Tsar  was  summoned  to  enable  him  to  realize  the 
situation.  The  Roumanian  army  was  brought  across  the 
Danube,  and  King  Charles  (then  Prince)  was  actually 
appointed  to  the  supreme  command  of  the  Roumanian 
Army  of  the  west,  his  Chief  of  the  Staff  being  the 
Russian  General  Zotoff.  The  King  led  two  divisions 
at  the  third  battle  of  Plevna,  and  this  signalized  a  new 
phase  in  the  position  and  prestige  of  Roumania.  The 
attack  on  the  Grivitza  Division  was  assigned  to  the 
Roumanians. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  welcome  of  King  Carol  in 
the  audience  he  graciously  accorded  me.  I  was  with  him 
over  an  hour,  and  His  Majesty  accompanied  me  to  the 
door  and  shook  hands  warmly  as  he  reminded  me  not  to 
be  late  for  the  visit  to  whicri  he  invited  me  on  the  following 
day.  It  was  timed  for  8.30  a.m.  as  His  Majesty  was 
leaving  at  9.30.  He  had  several  equerries  about,  and  a 
personage  that  looked  like  his  Lord-in-Waiting,  but 
what  was  my  surprise,  hearing  a  noise  behind  me  as  I 
walked  down  the  corridor,  to  see  the  King  hurrying  after 
me  with  a  diminutive  card  in  his  outstretched  hand. 
"  I  have  written  you  this,"  he  said,  "  that  you  may  not 

113  8 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

be  late."    I  reproduce  this  card,  on  which  was  written  8k — 
His  Majesty  meant  8.30. 

The  present  King  was  most  difficult  to  photograph,  as 
His  Majesty  kept  on  laughing  at  the  stories  I  had  told  him. 
The  one  that  most  tickled  him — "  The  laste  taste  of  your 
dhrawers  benathe  your  trousers  " — and  which  he  asked  to 
be  repeated  that  he  might  tell  his  wife — a  daughter  of  our 
Duke  of  Edinburgh — is  told  on  p.  174. 

What  a  field  for  conjecture  lies  in  the  contemplation 
of  what  the  world  would  be  to-day  had  Lord  Salisbury's 
policy  been  successful.  It  is  one  thing  to  conceive  a 
programme  ;  it  is  another  thing  to  see  it  brought  to  birth. 

Yet,  with  this  appreciation  of  Lord  Salisbury  and  his 
strong,  dignified  and  manly  predominance  in  foreign 
politics,  we  can  never  get  away  from  the  surrender  of 
Heligoland.  Efforts  have  been  made  to  trace  the  part 
taken  by  the  Admiralty  in  this  proceeding.  Was  the 
Head  of  our  maritime  force  apathetic  or  expostulative  ? 
It  does  his  memory  no  credit  if  he  was  acquiescent. 

When  lately  I  spent  some  months  in  the  Central 
Empires,  and  gathered  upon  the  spot  impressions  of  present 
conditions  throughout  the  lands  desolated  with  the  dust 
of  empire,  I  chanced  upon  a  variety  of  people  who  in 
pre-war  days  had  been  more  or  less  influential  in  the  affairs 
of  their  several  countries.  One  night  I  happened  to  find 
myself  at  dinner  in  company  with  Baron  von  Eckardstein, 
who  for  some  years  acted  as  Chief  of  the  German  Embassy 
in  London  during  the  many  illnesses  of  Count  Hatzfeldt, 
the  Ambassador.  The  Baron  at  one  time  had  many 
friends  in  England,  and  the  friendship  which  King  Edward 
accorded  to  him  gave  him  much  opportunity  of  estimating 
opinion  near  its  fountain-head.  He  is,  I  think,  the  most 
broad-minded  of  leading  Germans  I  have  lately  met, 

114 


Lord  Salisbury's  Foreign  Policy 

and  his  opinions  on  the  result  of  the  war  and  German 
discomfiture  may  be  summed  up  in  the  words :  With  so 
blind  a  move  diplomatically,  what  else  could  one  expect  ? 
the  ambition  of  Germany  was  the  courting  of  disaster. 

The  Baron  spoke  most  openly,  and  was  specially  in- 
teresting on  the  social  sidelights  he  is  so  qualified  to  give. 
It  is  a  regret  to  me  that  he  did  not  touch  upon  1895  nor 
allude  to  the  happenings  of  that  year.  Had  he  done  so, 
I  should  have  utilized  the  opportunity  by  asking  him 
about  certain  portions  of  a  book  which  bears  his  name, 
and  which,  I  understand,  was  published  since  I  saw  him. 

Considering  that  Lord  Salisbury  had  so  prominently 
espoused  the  cause  oi  Turkey  and  was  so  fully  convinced 
of  the  danger  of  trifling  with  the  interests  of  the  many 
nations  concerned  or  interested,  either  in  the  continuity 
of  the  Ottoman  Empire  or  in  its  partial  appropriation  by 
themselves,  I  confess  I  find  a  difficulty  in  crediting  the 
following,  especially  as  no  one  more  than  Lord  Salisbury 
realized  the  effect  there  would  be  on  the  many  Indian 
subjects  of  the  Crown  by  any  slight  upon  the  Sultan, 
whose  person  is  more  or  less  sacred  in  the  eyes  of  millions 
of  Mussulmans. 

In  parenthesis  I  may  add  that  in  diplomatic  circles 
it  is  a  matter  of  common  knowledge  that  Lord  Salisbury, 
in  the  year  1895,  was  intent  on  moving  in  the  matter  of 
acquiring  (by  agreement  with  Germany)  certain  of  the 
Portuguese  Colonies,  concerning  the  disposal  of  which 
her  financial  difficulties  made  Portugal  agreeable. 

"  That  August  (1895)  the  Kaiser,  in  addition  to  this 
senseless  yet  most  serious  friction  with  his  uncle,"  says 
the  Baron,  "  also  caused  a  deep  and  dangerous  alienation 
of  Lord  Salisbury. 

"  Lord  Salisbury  had,  in  July,  1895,  heavily  defeated 

115  8* 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

the  Liberals  under  Lord  Rosebery.  On  my  meeting  him 
soon  after  at  a  political  party  at  Lord  Cadogan's,  and 
congratulating  him  on  his  large  majority,  he  asked  me  when 
I  expected  the  Kaiser  at  Cowes  that  year,  and  how  long 
he  would  stay.  He  gave  me  to  understand  that  he  wanted 
to  discuss  the  Eastern  Question  with  him  personally,  and 
would  come  himself  to  Cowes  for  that  purpose.  He  asked 
me  to  give  his  private  secretary,  Eric  Barrington,  the  exact 
date,  which  I  duly  did.  I  also  reported  the  matter  to 
my  chief,  Count  Hatzfeldt,  who,  however,  attached  little 
importance  to  it  at  the  time,  as  indeed  no  one  could  have 
foreseen  how  far  Lord  Salisbury's  proposals  would  go. 

"  The  meeting  was  arranged  for  the  eighth  of  August 
on  the  Hohenzollern  at  a  certain  hour.  The  Kaiser  waited 
and  waited,  but  no  Lord  Salisbury.  It  was  an  hour  past 
the  time,  and  the  Kaiser  had  got  very  impatient,  when 
at  last  a  steam  cutter  came  alongside  and  Lord  Salisbury 
hurried  panting  up  the  accommodation  ladder,  apologizing 
profusely  for  his  involuntary  delay.  He  was,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  in  no  way  to  blame,  for  the  steam  launch  told  off 
to  bring  him  from  East  Cowes  had  broken  down  and  another 
boat  could  not  immediately  be  procured.  But  even  if 
it  had  not  been  a  case  of  force  majeure,  considerations  of 
policy  might  well  have  induced  the  Kaiser  to  meet  England's 
leading  statesman  with  friendliness  and  to  overlook  the 
incident.  Instead  of  which  he  showed  his  resentment 
markedly  in  his  manner. 

"  In  the  ensuing  conversation,  Lord  Salisbury  came 
forward  with  a  proposal  for  the  partition  of  the  Ottoman 
Empire  between  Germany,  Austria  and  England.  Of 
course,  the  acceptance  of  this  bold  and  broad  proposal 
must  have  resulted  in  the  official  accession  of  Great  Britain 
to  the  Triple  Alliance.  And  thus  the  goal  that  Bismarck 

116 


Lord  Salisbury's  Foreign  Policy 

had  been  pursuing  since  1875,  but  had  himself  been  unable 
to  put  through,  because  England  was  not  ready  for  alliance, 
would  have  been  pulled  off  at  one  stroke.  What  the  great 
economists  of  Germany,  above  all  Friedrich  Liszt,  had 
perpetually  preached  would  then  have  been  attained.  But 
it  was  not  to  be. 

"The  acceptance  of  this  proposal  would  have  solved 
at  once  one  of  Germany's  most  difficult  problems.  The 
surplus  of  its  ever  increasing  population  might  have  settled 
in  the  richest  regions  of  the  world,  with  a  climate  suitable 
for  white  settlers.  Germany  might  easily  have  swelled 
to  a  people  of  over  a  hundred  millions,  instead  of  seeing  the 
pick  of  its  population  continually  passing  over  to  foreign 
nationalities.  But  the  opportunity  of  building  up  a 
greater  Germany  on  a  sound  foundation  was  lost.  German 
policy  stayed  in  the  rut  in  which  it  had  stuck  since  Wilhelm's 
accession,  a  policy  of  pin-pricking  the  rest  of  the  world  and 
of  pegging  out  claims  in  swampy  and  fever-stricken  regions 
of  Africa.  And  the  last  word  of  wisdom  was  still  supposed 
to  be  the  building  a  battle  fleet  to  drive  England  into  the 
arms  of  France  and  Russia,  while  grossly  neglecting  our 
land  armaments. 

"  When,  ten  years  later,  I  told  August  Bebel  of  this 
move  of  Lord  Salisbury's,  which  was,  of  course,  quite 
unknown  to  him,  he  clasped  his  hands  over  his  head,  saying  : 
'  If  that  was  really  so,  then  Wilhelm  and  his  advisers  deserve 
to  be  hanged.'  " 

For  all  this  clasping  of  hands,  I,  who  am  not  a  German, 
and  consequently  regard  the  matter  from  a  different  stand- 
point, feel  certain  misgivings  with  reference  to  the  success 
of  Lord  Salisbury's  projected  settlement.  When  in  doubt 
trump  is  an  axiom  excellent  in  a  broader  sense  than  that 
of  mere  cards,  and  I  cast  about  me  in  my  mind  for  some 

117 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

court  card,  some  specialist  in  diplomacy  who  might  amend 
my  judgment  on  the  question. 

Intellectual  generosity  is  one  of  Lord  Sydenham's 
great  gifts  in  addition  to  the  many  which  have  won  for  him 
prestige,  prominence  and  power.  Utilized  as  is  his  every 
moment,  this  generosity  moves  him  to  take  trouble  with 
one's  ignorance,  and  I  have  many  a  time  benefited  by  the 
quiet,  calm  and  illuminating  way  in  which  he  would  explain 
to  me  some  political  or  diplomatic  problem  concerning 
which  I  was  in  doubt.  Long  before  I  was  fortunate 
enough  to  know  him,  I  had  from  time  to  time  been  very 
considerably  assisted  by  the  fearless,  outspoken  and  logical 
criticisms  made  by  Lord  Sydenham  in  The  Times  and 
Morning  Post  on  important  current  topics  of  the  moment. 
And  it  is  not  only  this  small  person  who  writes  these  pages 
who  has  been  thus  helped,  but  England  herself  has 
utilized  his  brain  and  experience  by  sending  him  on  special 
missions  to  some  of  the  prominent  countries  of  Europe 
as  well  as  that  of  the  United  States. 

Most  men  with  a  long  past  of  arduous  labour  for  their 
land  are  content  with  the  ease  and  laurels  which  await 
their  return,  but  I  believe  that  at  this  moment,  with  his 
incessant  and  courageously  outspoken  utterances,  both 
in  the  House  of  Lords  and  in  the  Press,  Lord  Sydenham 
is  doing  as  much  service  for  the  Empire  to-day  as  he  ever 
did  in  the  past.  It  is  worth  recording  that  after  he  had 
spent  years  endeavouring  to  rouse  the  Government  and 
the  country  to  the  need  of  reform  at  the  War  Office,  the 
Government  eventually  appointed  a  War  Office  Recon- 
struction Committee  of  three,  of  which,  indeed,  Lord 
Sydenham  was  one,  and  he  was  recalled  from  his  Governor- 
ship of  Victoria  to  take  his  seat  at  the  board.  Many  are 
re-called,  but  few  are  chosen. 

118 


Lord  Salisbury's  Foreign  Policy 

It  was  only  the  other  day  that  I  thought  as  I  sat  in  his 
room  and  listened  to  him  :  Good  heavens  !  there  are 
only  two  letters  between  Lord  Sydenham's  name  and  mine, 
and  there  are  quite  two  leagues  of  land  between  my  ignorance 
and  his  experience.  Why,  instead  of  placing  a  head  upon 
my  name,  could  he  not  have  done  so  upon  my  shoulders  ? 

With  all  this  in  mind  I  went  over  and  had  an  afternoon 
with  this  distinguished  man,  and,  as  I  was  certain  I  should, 
I  not  only  did  learn  much,  but  grew  to  look  on  certain 
political  phases  of  the  past  in  their  proper  light  and  value 
and  trend.  I  would  tell  you  much  of  this  but  that  the 
fuller  consideration  of  the  matter  prompted  Lord  Syden- 
ham  to  send  me  the  following  letter.  He  adds  to  his  kind- 
ness to  me  by  permitting  its  publication. 

LORD  SYDENHAM'S  LETTER 

"DEAR  SIR  JAMES, 

"  I  have  been  thinking  over  our  conversation  with 
the  result  that  I  gravely  doubt  the  accuracy  of  Baron  von 
Eckardstein's  statements  in  regard  to  Lord  Salisbury's 
contemplated  policy  in  1895.  Fifteen  years  earlier  Lords 
Beaconsfield  and  Salisbury  returned  from  Berlin  bringing 
'  peace  with  honour  ' — a  paraphrase  of  a  saying  of  Crom- 
well which  was  calculated  to  become  popular  at  the  moment. . 
It  meant  that  a  modification  of  the  Treaty  of  San  Stefano 
in  favour  of  the  Turks  had  been  secured  by  British  efforts. 
The  main  features  of  this  temporary  arrangement  were 
the  creation  of  the  State  of  Roumelia  under  the 
suzerainty  of  the  Porte  and  the  right  to  garrison  the 
Balkan  Passes  with  Turkish  troops.  The  first  crumbled 
to  pieces  in  the  brief  Serbo-Bulgarian  War  of  1885.  The 
second  proved  a  dead  letter.  Lord  Salisbury's  attitude 

119 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

towards  the  Turkish  question  undoubtedly  changed  sub- 
sequently to  the  Berlin  Congress  as  indicated  by  the  speech 
in  which  he  significantly  referred  to  our  '  backing  the  wrong 
horse.'  I  cannot  recall  the  date  of  this  pronouncement, 
but  it  impressed  me  at  the  time.  As  regards  Germany, 
the  surrender  of  Heligoland  in  1900  may  have  been  symp- 
tomatic of  a  desire  for  closer  relations.  My  recollection 
is,  however,  that,  owing  to  a  mistake,  we  had  violated 
some  undertaking  with  respect  to  Zanzibar,  and  that  Lord 
Salisbury  was  anxious  to  make  amends.  In  any  case,  the 
cession  of  Heligoland  gave  Germany  immense  advantages 
in  the  Great  War,  and  it  is  a  curious  fact  that  while  the 
impossible  attempt  to  force  the  passage  of  the  Dardanelles 
by  using  the  Fleet  was  apparently  sanctioned  by  the 
War  Council,  the  relatively  easy  task  of  destroying  the 
defences  of  Heligoland  was  —  most  wisely  —  dismissed  as 
impracticable. 

"  Baron  von  Eckardstein  states  that  on  August  8, 
1895,  Lord  Salisbury  proposed,  or  intended  to  propose,  to 
the  Kaiser  '  the  partition  of  the  Ottoman  Empire 
between  Germany,  Austria  and  England,'  and  that  August 
Bebel,  when  informed  of  this  plan  ten  years  later,  remarked 
that,  if  this  proposal  was  really  made  and  refused, '  Wilhelm 
and  his  advisers  deserve  to  be  hanged.'  You  will  notice 
that  the  story  is  peculiarly  vague.  Does  *  partition ' 
mean  division  into  spheres  of  influence  after  the  manner 
of  the  Anglo-Russian  agreement  dealing  with  Persia,  or 
was  it  contemplated  to  treat  the  Ottoman  Empire  as 
Poland  was  treated  in  the  eighteenth  century  ?  The  dis- 
tinction is  important,  although  either  project  was,  in  my 
opinion,  dangerous  to  the  last  degree  apart  from  its  cynical 
immorality.  I  cannot  imagine  any  partition  which  would 
have  been  either  acceptable  to  Germany  or  safe  for  our- 

120 


Lord  Salisbury's  Foreign  Policy 

selves.  Which  Power,  for  example,  would  control  Con- 
stantinople and  the  Straits — a  vital  point  ?  How  would 
the  ports  on  the  ^Egean  be  divided  among  Powers  each  of 
which  would  require  free  access  to  the  sea  ?  What  would 
become  of  Palestine  ?  How  would  transit  from  the  two 
Central  Powers  to  their  Protectorates  or  Possessions  in  Asia 
Minor  be  arranged  ?  Austria  alone  had  in  1895  a  frontier 
marching  with  that  of  Turkey  in  the  region  of  Novi  Bazar. 
These  are  only  a  few  of  the  questions  that  suggest  them- 
selves in  regard  to  the  geographical  aspects  of  the  partition. 
It  may  be  regarded  as  certain  that  the  German  share  of 
the  inheritance  of  the  Sick  Man  would  be  vigorously  ex- 
ploited and  eventually  turned  into  military  occupation. 

"  This  brings  me  to  the  question  :  How  was  the  scheme 
to  be  carried  out  ?  The  Turks  have  never  been  negligible 
as  a  military  Power,  and  their  best  troops  have  always  been 
recruited  in  Asia  Minor.  If  they  had  been  evicted  from 
Europe  in  accordance  with  the  '  bag  and  baggage  '  policy 
of  Mr.  Gladstone,  they  would  have  become  more  formid- 
able than  they  are  to-day.  Their  foothold  in  Europe  has 
been  their  vulnerable  point.  Can  it  be  believed  that  Lord 
Salisbury  seriously  contemplated  a  military  alliance  with 
Germany  and  Austria  to  compel  Turkey  to  submit  to  the 
knife  ?  It  is  inconceivable  that  he  did  not  take  Turkish 
resistance  into  account. 

"  If  you  consider  the  political  possibilities  involved  in 
this  alleged  proposal,  you  will  realize  the  disastrous  con- 
sequences that  might  have  followed.  Russia  would  never 
have  acquiesced  and  would  have  been  able  to  oppose  active 
resistance  from  her  then  strong  position  in  Transcaucasia. 
Our  possession  of  Cyprus,  foreshadowed  in  Disraeli's  novels, 
would  of  course  have  been  valueless  in  the  contingency 
for  which  it  was  supposed  to  provide,  and  on  the  Indian 

121 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

frontier  Russia  could  have  given  us  infinite  trouble. 
France  has  always  jealously  regarded  her  claims  on  Syria. 
Is  it  to  be  supposed  that  she  would  have  placidly  resigned 
herself  to  the  partition  of  Asiatic  Turkey  ?  Bulgaria, 
after  her  defeat  of  Serbia,  cherished  ambitions  which  led 
her  to  the  capture  of  Adrianople  in  1912,  and  the  effects 
upon  the  Balkan  States  generally  of  the  opening  up  of  great 
lines  of  communication  between  the  Central  Powers  and 
their  Ottoman  territories  would  have  been  disturbing 
to  the  last  degree. 

"  The  policy  outlined  by  Baron  von  Eckardstein  would 
have  permanently  estranged  us  from  Russia  and  France, 
and  would  probably  have  led  to  a  European  War.  As- 
suming, however,  that  it  was  even  approximately  accurate, 
I  can  easily  imagine  that  the  Kaiser  would  not  accept  it. 
By  1895,  German  ambitions  in  Asia  Minor  and  Mesopo- 
tamia were  in  process  of  expansion.  The  Kaiser  might 
well  have  regarded  co-operation  in  the  despoiling  of  the 
Turk  as  not  conducive  to  the  success  of  his  plans  for  German 
penetration  to  the  Persian  Gulf.  The  Alldeutscber  Blatter 
on  December  8,  1895,  was  able  to  state  : 

"  German  interests  demand  that  Turkey,  in  Asia 
at  least,  should  be  placed  under  German  protec- 
tion. The  most  advantageous  step  for  us  would  be 
the  acquisition  of  Mesopotamia  and  Syria  and  the 
obtaining  of  a  Protectorate  over  Asia  Minor. 

"  As  far  back  as  1841,  von  Moltke  had  drawn  attention 
to  the  strategic  and  economic  importance  of  Asia  Minor 
and  the  eager  protagonists  of  the  Drang  nack  Osten  had 
long  been  active.  In  1896  the  projected  Baghdad  railway 
reached  Konia,  and  in  subsequent  years  the  grip  of  the 
German  financiers  upon  Turkey  steadily  tightened.  Three 

122 


Lord  Salisbury's  Foreign  Policy 

years  after  the  meeting  at  Cowes  the  Kaiser  descended 
with  great  pomp  and  ceremony  upon  the  Near  East  and 
announced  himself  as  the  champion  of  Islam.  All  this 
and  the  tardy  misgivings  in  this  country  form  a  long  and 
complex  story  ;  but  I  think  I  am  justified  in  believing 
that,  when  Lord  Salisbury  met  the  Kaiser,  the  latter 
was  deeply  immersed  in  schemes  for  the  Germanization 
of  Asiatic  Turkey  at  least,  and  that  the  proposal  for  a 
tripartite  agreement  was  most  unlikely  to  appeal  to  him. 
"  I  therefore  come  to  the  conclusion  that  Baron  von 
Eckardstein's  information  is  at  fault,  and  that  no  pro- 
posals of  such  magnitude,  fraught  with  such  danger  to 
the  peace  of  Europe,  were  made  by  Lord  Salisbury.  If 
they  were  made,  it  could  only  be  with  the  idea  of  sounding 
the  Kaiser  in  confident  expectation  of  his  refusal.  On 
the  other  hand,  foreseeing  troubles  in  the  Near  and 
Middle  East,  Lord  Salisbury  may  have  made  some 
suggestions  in  the  vain  hope  of  securing  a  friendly  un- 
derstanding. Sir  Edward  Grey's  efforts  in  this  direction 
on  the  eve  of  the  Great  War  are  already  forgotten,  and 
his  draft  African  and  Baghdad  Treaties,  which  were 
rejected  at  Berlin,  went  further  in  the  direction  of  graceful 
concession  than  some  of  us  would  have  approved.  It 
is  upon  these  negotiations  that  Prince  Lichnowsky  based 
his  conclusive  refutation  of  the  *  encirclement '  policy 
which  the  Germans  have  attributed  to  us  as  the  justifi- 
cation of  their  military  madness.  Considering  the 
powerful  commercial  and  industrial  position  that  Germany 
had  built  up,  that  she  was  steadily  acquiring  control  of 
the  industries  of  other  nations,  that  emigration  had  almost 
ceased  some  years  before  the  War  and  that  Sir  Edward 
Grey  was  offering  fresh  opportunities  for  German  ex- 
ploitation, I  find  the  reasons  for  her  sudden  furious 

123 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

attack  upon  the  liberties  of  Europe  more  and  more  in- 
comprehensible. 

"  Yours  sincerely, 

"  SYDENHAM." 
March  2Otb,  1922. 

If  for  yourselves  you  could  see  Lord  Sydenham's  sanctum 
with  its  scores  of  books  containing  his  brain's  output, 
you  would  realize,  as  does  this  writer,  the  kindness  of  thus 
sparing  so  much  of  his  valued  time  in  the  thought  necessary 
to  the  penning  of  the  above  letter. 

Having  seen  with  my  own  eyes  and  realized  with  my 
own  heart  and  brain  the  hapless  state  of  affairs  at  present 
visible  in  the  Central  Empires,  one  cannot  but  wish 
that  the  practised,  practical,  professional  diplomatist 
were  more  often  evidenced  in  the  nation's  counsels,  for, 
believe  me,  there  is  no  more  deadly  danger  in  the  council 
chambers  of  the  world  than  the  amateur  diplomatist  and  an 
ignorance  too  gross  to  be  cognisant  of  its  limits. 


124 


LORD    SYDENHAM    OF    COMBE,    G.C.M.G. 


[To  face  page  124. 


XI 

GLADSTONE 

The  Old-World  Prejudices  of  Cliques  and  Classes.  Days  of  Lukewarm  Convictions. 
The  Buddhist  at  the  Banquet.  The  God  of  Gold  upon  its  Pedestal  of  Greed. 
The  Scene  in  the  Lobby  between  Bradlaugh  and  the  late  Lord  Norton.  Glad- 
stone's Part  in  Irish  Disestablishment  and  Home  Rule.  A  Luncheon  Party 
in  Grosvenor  Square — An  Instance  of  Gladstone's  Marvellous  Memory.  My 
Union  Speech  and  Gladstone's  Reference  to  it.  Browning  damns  the  Negative — 
Gladstone's  Rejoinder  "  The  True  Poet  is  his  own  Rule."  A  Ducal  Reminis- 
cence— "John,  hand  the  Cake."  Mrs.  Gladstone's  Openness  of  Nature — Her 
Midnight  Window-Call  of  "  Tea  Upstairs."  Mrs.  Gladstone's  Quick  Changes. 
Lady  Ailesbury's  Triple  Crown.  The  Antagonisms  of  Titanic  Times.  An 
Argument  with  Gladstone — Is  the  Poet  deserving  of  Praise  whom  the  Gods 
inspire  ?  Gladstone's  Silent  Passage  through  the  Streets  of  his  Triumph. 

YOU  who  read  can  barely  realize  the  chasm  which 
in  Victorian  days  separated  those  of  diverse  politics 
or  creeds.  It  was  not  a  placid  chasm  either.  It  was 
one  of  vituperous  enmity.  In  those  days  one  did  not 
admit  to  one's  friendship,  still  less  to  one's  intimacy, 
people  tainted  with  opposing  opinions.  When  he  heard 
that  I  had  been  seen  talking  to  Mr.  Gladstone,  my  own 
brother-in-law  considered  the  middle  of  St.  George's 
Channel,  minus  lifebelt  or  raft,  the  proper  place  for  me, 
or  else  the  safe  seclusion  of  the  edifice  over  which  he  so 
emphatically  presided  as  Governor  of  Kilmainham.  He 
was  an  Irishman  of  the  old  school,  but  there  were  many 
of  the  old  school  who  were  not  Irish.  These  days  have 
no  conception  of  the  prejudices  of  the  past.  I  do  not 
exaggerate  when  I  say  that,  despite  the  fact  that  I  was 

125 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

always  a  strong  Tory,  and  from  earliest  years  had  en- 
deavoured to  do  my  bit  for  that  decadent  Party,  my 
veneration  for  Gladstone  as  a  man,  and  respect  and  admira- 
tion for  his  stupendous  mental  powers,  would  have  brought 
me  short  shrift  in  many  and  many  a  house  where  ignorance 
for  this,  my  admiration,  allowed  me  to  be  received  with 
the  kindliest  of  welcome. 

Incredulous  as  it  may  seem  in  these  days  of  lukewarm 
convictions,  hundreds  of  doors  would  have  been  shut  to 
me  had  I  written  yesterday  as  a  wider  tolerance  allows 
me  to  write  to-day.  Should  we  indeed  call  it  tolerance 
or  apathy  ?  I  tell  you,  so  seems  it,  that  all  that  once  was 
virile  in  conviction  has  also  winged  its  way  across  the 
waves. 

Nowadays,  provided  you  are  popular  and  well  placed, 
you  may  believe  what  you  will  and  be  equally  well  received. 
This  is  by  no  means  the  result  of  a  riper  Christian  charity, 
nor  of  that  intellectual  growth  which  engenders  tolerance. 
Not  a  semblance  of  it !  It  is  more  the  result  of  the  de- 
cadence of  belief,  and  thereby  the  living  adrift  without 
faith  or  foundation.  We  have  ceased  to  care  for  anything 
sufficiently  to  make  it  worth  our  while  to  guard  belief 
with  the  vigilance  of  distrust.  I  feel  assured  that  if,  like 
the  late  Lord  Stanley  of  Alderley,  I  turned  Moslem,  or 
even  Buddhist,  as  did  Mr.  St.  George  Fox  Pitt,  I  should 
not  lose  one  whit  of  social  esteem  nor  one  mouthful  at  any 
desirable  banquet.  In  these  days  you  can  turn  your  back 
on  Christ  and  still  be  received  at  dinner,  and  at  most 
tables  you  will  meet  the  Jew  who  crucified  Him,  but  not 
the  penitent  thief  who  shared  His  redemption. 

Oh  ye,  who  read  me  in  quiet  places,  wherein  perhaps 
is  solitude  and  rest,  is  there  not  food  for  thought  in  this  ? 
Is  it  not  pain  to  read  such  words  if  they  be  true  ?  Never- 

126 


Gladstone 

theless,  whatsoever  you  say,  they  are  true.  Is  it  a  credit 
to  us,  English  born  of  Norman  sires,  of  doughty  Danes 
that  swept  the  seas,  sons  of  the  Saxons  and  the  high-souled 
Celt — how  made  they  this  land  so  strong  ?  Look  at  each 
Cathedral  town,  and  wherever  a  lofty  spire  pierces  the 
overhanging  cloud,  there  stand  for  Time  the  milestones 
of  their  faith,  and  now,  believe  me,  there  is  scarcely  enough 
of  belief  in  one  city  as  would  overlap  our  wallets.  The 
old  traditions  are  going,  even  as  old  faiths  have  mainly 
gone,  manners  too,  and  all  the  gentle  fascinations  of  sex, 
which  in  old  times  helped  towards  the  continuance  of  our 
race,  and  nothing  matters  but  Money !  The  blast  of 
bullion,  the  reveille  of  riches,  ring  through  the  land.  We 
have  not  sense  nor  silence  for  any  other  sound,  and  so  it 
will  be  so  long  as  we  enshrine  the  God  of  Gold  upon 
its  Pedestal  of  Greed.  The  Press  panders  to  it,  and  even 
poetry  is  not  untainted.  New  men  are  manufactured 
by  this  new-made  mammon,  and  they  have  neither 
sympathy  nor  knowledge  of  the  makings  of  an  Empire 
which  their  new  methods  are  impotent  to  grasp  and  hold. 
As  an  instance  of  the  enormous  change  the  past  half 
century  has  seen  in  the  position  and  prestige  of  religious 
belief,  let  me  tell  you  of  a  scene  I  witnessed  at  Westminster. 
I  happened  to  be  in  the  precincts  of  the  House  when  that 
famous  scene  was  enacted  between  Bradlaugh  and  the  late 
Lord  Norton.  It  was  during  Bradlaugh's  struggle  to  relieve 
himself  of  the  oath,  and  right  and  left  he  dazed  the  eyes 
of  the  remnants  of  the  Christian  world  with  his  denials 
of  a  God.  Lord  Norton  was  one  of  the  most  quenchless  of 
Catholics,  using  this  word  in  its  right  and  non-Romish 
sense.  He  would  budge  no  fraction  of  an  inch  from  the 
Faith  of  his  fathers,  and  considered  all  trafficking  with 
Truth  (with  a  very  big  T)  a  degeneracy  not  only  of  spiritual 

127 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

but  of  Imperial  decadence.  He  had  not  troubled  to  mince 
matters  concerning  his  opinion  of  Bradlaugh.  Had  spoken 
right  out  of  whatever  he  had  of  soul,  and  this  Bradlaugh 
resented  and  violently  accosted  him  in  the  Lobby.  I  was 
standing  talking  to  Lord  Norton,  and  shall  never  forget 
that  scene.  So  strongly  did  differences  of  opinion  then 
surge,  that  it  was  many  weeks  before  Lord  Norton  felt 
purified  from  that  vocal  contagion. 

It  is  wise,  perhaps,  to  mention  for  the  understanding  of 
younger  readers  that,  up  to  the  date  whereof  I  write,  all 
members-elect,  before  being  qualified  to  sit  in  the  Commons, 
had  to  take  the  oath  as  before  God.  Bradlaugh,  who  had 
been  elected  and  re-elected  for  Northampton,  contended 
that  it  was  idle  to  bring  in  the  Name  of  a  Personage  non- 
existent, and  agitated  for  a  seat  minus  the  onus  of  an  oath. 
In  these  days  this  would  be  a  trivial  matter.  It  was  not 
so  in  the  eighties,  and  from  one  end  of  England  to  the 
other  there  was  clamour,  contest  and  consternation. 

v  Gladstone,  who  was  accounted  the  most  unscrupulous 
politician  of  his  time,  was  in  my  belief  the  most  conscientious 
of  men.  It  was  this  very  conscientiousness  that  offered 
foundation  for  accusations  of  inconsistency.  Intellectuality 
was  to  him  as  a  god.  His  mind  lived  to  learn,  and  it  was 
not  seldom  that  the  riper  light  of  the  morrow  eliminated 
the  lodestar  of  to-day.  He  was  a  searcher  after  light,  and 
no  matter  how  far  the  summit  might  be,  there  looked  he 
to  find  his  beacon. 

This  writer  does  not  say  all  this  from  conclusions 
gathered  from  Gladstone's  speeches  or  books.  He  has  had 
talks  an  hour  at  a  time  with  that  great  man,  and  as  a  rule  it 
does  not  take  two  minutes  to  probe  the  mental  falsity  of 
most.  He  would  think  and  think  and  ruminate  and  consider 
before  he  answered  a  word,  and  this,  not  as  your  lawyer  for 

128 


Gladstone 

love  of  concealment,  but  rather  for  the  finding  of  truth  at 
its  fullest.  This  thought  I  could  understand  if  the  conversa- 
tion had  been  political,  but  when  the  talk  was  of  Great 
Truths,  axioms  of  belief,  and  tenets  whereto  clung  the 
tendrils  of  intelligent  progress,  it  was  masterful  to  note 
the  humble  care  he  manifested  that  the  conclusion  whereto 
he  arrived  should  be  stablished  on  common  sense  and  justice 
and  logic.  Of  a  truth  his  impetuosity  lay  rather  in  his 
rhetoric  than  in  his  religion,  or  in  that  spiritual  insight 
which  in  its  strong  belief  is  even  a  religion  to  itself.  Is 
it  likely  that  a  man  can  be  so  double-natured  that  in  all 
matters  of  soul  and  intellect  he  serves  but  one  God,  and 
that  in  politics  he  recognizes  Baal  and  Moloch  and  Belial  ? 

You  may  take  it  from  me  as  the  result  of  much  close 
observance  of  men,  that  the  mind  which  in  small  matters 
is  the  devotee  of  right  will  not  in  large  be  devious  of  wrong. 
And  so,  though  I  have  countless  wiser  people  against  me, 
this  is  my  opinion  of  the  great  man  who  for  many  years 
swayed  our  Imperial  interests  and  was  five  times  Prime 
Minister  of  England. 

It  is  one  of  the  deadly  mishaps  of  greatness  that  all 
manner  of  small  men  can  hurl  the  nearest  brick,  and  that 
coteries  of  politicians  can  collaborate  a  character  to  suit  the 
purports  of  their  individual  political  aspirations.  It  is  thus 
more  than  ever  the  duty  of  contemporaneous  facilities  for 
observation  to  speak  out  as  they  have  seen  and  draw  their 
conclusions  as  their  souls  enforce  them.  For  my  own  part 
this  did  not  influence  what  I  thought  and  what  I  said  on 
many  a  public  platform.  Gladstone  as  a  man  was  one 
thing,  as  a  politician  he  was  another,  but  he  threw  his 
whole  soul  into  each,  and  that  whole  soul  was  one  and 
the  same,  for  he  was  altogether  above  trimming  it  for  the 
sake  of  any  political  end  or  advancement.  As  proof  of  this, 

129  9 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

remember  how  he  dislocated  the  unity  of  a  great  Party 
by  his  conversion  to  Home  Rule.  A  mere  place-hunter 
would  have  stood  where  he  was,  but  his  conversion  cost  him 
most  of  his  friends  and  the  superb  power  which  had  hitherto 
been  his.  A  man  whose  mind  was  essentially  ecclesiastic, 
and  who  had  numbers  of  clerics  as  his  friends,  a  man,  too, 
steeped  in  the  traditions  of  Oxford,  he  yet  jeopardizes  his 
position  as  a  Churchman  by  actuating  his  convictions 
regarding  the  Disestablishment  of  the  Irish  Church.  He 
had  little  to  gain  by  this :  he  had  everything  to  lose. 
Circumstances  many  times  seemed  against  him,  but  not 
for  those  who  have  eyes  to  look  beneath  the  surface  and 
clarity  enough  to  comprehend  the  difficulties  they  do  not 
share. 

Allusion  has  been  made  above  to  the  various  talks  I 
was  privileged  to  have  with  Gladstone,  but  what  more 
infinitely  astonishes  me  than  the  conversations  is  that  I 
was  ever  able  to  edge  in  a  word.  I  have  seen  many  who 
may  be  said  to  have  spoken  with  the  great  man,  but  they 
were  never  heard.  Gladstone,  once  he  was  wound  up, 
was  akin  to  an  alarm  clock.  You  could  not  stop  him, 
and  the  only  thing  that  prevented  alarm  on  the  listener's 
part  was  the  fact  that  the  speech  was  so  vehement  and  virile 
and  volcanic  that  it  was  difficult  to  attach  meaning  to  it. 
Baron  von  Eckardstein  records  that  when,  owing  to  the 
illness  of  his  Chief,  he  was  in  full  charge  of  the  German 
Embassy,  Gladstone,  meeting  him  at  Lord  Cadogan's, 
spoke  to  him  at  some  length,  with  never  a  halt,  regarding 
the  situation  of  the  Central  Empires.  There  were  two 
humorous  sides  to  this — firstly,  the  Baron  did  not  com- 
prehend a  word ;  secondly,  that  Gladstone  in  this  one-sided 
conversation  had  mistaken  the  listener  for  one  of  the 
Austrian  Embassy. 

130 


Gladstone 

This,  I  believe,  that  regarding  politics,  in  a  matter 
concerning  which  the  great  man  had  made  up  his  mind  he 
would  address  his  listener  with  vehement  velocity,  nor 
was  there  either  the  edging  in  of  a  word  nor  the  stopping  of 
him.  I  never  had  a  political  conversation  with  him,  so 
had  experience  of  none  of  that.  But,  concerning  a  point  of 
belief  or  truth,  art  or  poetry,  his  mind  might  not  be  assuredly 
made  up,  and  his  utterance  was  slower  with  those  pauses 
which  sometimes  rendered  rejoinder  a  possibility.  That 
was  where  I  occasionally  came  in. 

At  a  small  luncheon  party  in  Grosvenor  Square  I  heard 
Gladstone  say  a  fine  thing.  There  had  been  talk  of 
vitriolic  vituperations  lately  rioting  to  and  fro.  "  My 
memory,"  said  Gladstone,  "  has  no  room  for  the  venom 
of  inconsiderables."  What  a  fine  saying  this  is  and  how 
excellently  put !  When  I  consider  my  own  small  life 
and  the  obstructions  of  the  mentally  immature,  assuredly 
there  would  have  been  no  room  for  progress  had  I  stooped 
to  be  obsessed  by  them.  These  are  what  Gladstone  would 
call  the  inconsiderables.  But  in  an  after  talk  with  him  he 
confessed  that  the  considerables  gave  him  pain,  but,  he 
added,  men  whose  opinions  really  matter  rarely  attempt  to 
wound  in  this  way.  There  is  appreciation  of  the  difficulties 
and  perhaps  admiration  for  the  endeavour,  even  though 
the  achievement  be  not  to  their  liking.  This  poor  writer 
thanks  God  that  the  real  workers  of  his  time  have  been  with 
him,  and  if  there  be  anything  in  his  work,  helpful  in  the 
present  or  enduring  in  the  days  to  come,  it  is  due  to  the 
kindliness  and  the  comfort  of  words  worth  hearing.  I 
have  to  thank  the  Grand  Old  Man  for  many  such,  and  it 
is  a  memory  worth  keeping  with  one's  treasures  that  one 
so  great  should  have  noticed  one  so  small. 

At  this  same  luncheon  a  noteworthy  thing  happened 

131  9* 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

which  instances  Gladstone's  marvellous  memory.  There 
was  much  agitation  at  the  time  regarding  Russia's  supposed 
designs  on  the  East.  Present  at  the  table  was  a  man  who, 
but  a  few  days  before,  had  returned  from  an  extended  tour. 
To  the  lady  next  him  he  gave  many  interesting  details  of 
his  time  abroad,  and  to  these  the  great  man  began  to  listen, 
and  in  the  end  we  all  listened,  and  the  traveller  was  speaking 
to  the  table,  Gladstone  completely  intent.  He  asked  the 
traveller  many  questions,  and  afterwards  said  to  me : 
"  Do  you  know  Mr.  So  and  So  ;  what  do  you  think  of 
his  account  ?  "  I  answered  that  I  had  never  met  him 
before,  but  that  his  words  made  a  great  impression  on  me 
because  nothing  was  asserted  that  did  not  seem  drawn  from 
most  carefully  weighed  conclusions  and  that  the  thoughtful- 
ness  of  the  speaker's  mind  rendered  random  deductions  as 
unlikely.  "  It  may  be  taken,"  I  added,  "  that  the  data 
he  mentioned  was  open  for  all  to  see,  and  that  the  average 
thoughtful  observer  would  be  compelled  to  similar  con- 
clusions." It  was  less  than  a  week  afterwards  that  in 
the  House  of  Commons  I  heard  Gladstone  include  in  his 
speech  every  item  of  importance  we  had  listened  to  at  that 
luncheon,  and  its  effect  was  telling  on  the  House.  I  subse- 
quently met  that  travelled  man  and  casually  asked  him 
had  he  seen  or  communicated  with  Gladstone  since  we  met 
at  luncheon.  He  replied  in  the  negative.  He  had  not 
seen  Gladstone's  speech,  nor  did  I  inform  him. 

Gladstone  was  a  glutton  for  annexing  knowledge. 
Whilst  Disraeli  gave  one  the  impression  that  he  paid  more 
attention  to  the  placing  of  his  replies  epigrammatically, 
Gladstone  was  eagerness  itself  to  get  at  the  bottom  of  your 
mind  and  rob  you  of  its  contents.  He  would  ask  you  many 
questions  and  what  was  very  much  rarer  would  await  the 
reply.  I  wonder  if  people  realize  how  rare  a  quality  this  is. 

132 


Gladstone 

A  dear  woman  friend  of  mine  got  a  neat  snub  from  an 
Irish  butler  through  lack  of  the  quality  which  Gladstone 
so  abundantly  possessed.  We  were  turning  homeward  from 
the  Park  when  she  said  :  "  I  must  go  round  by  Grosvenor 
Place  and  ask  how  poor  So  and  So  is."  So  and  So,  be  it 
said,  was  seriously  ill.  We  knocked  at  the  door,  and  a 
footman  appeared  with  the  butler  standing  behind  him. 
My  friend  said  :  "  How  is  Lady  So  and  So  ?  Will  you 
say  that  Mrs.  Blank  called  to  inquire  ?  "  She  then  turned 
to  scuttle  off  for  luncheon,  but  this  being  too  much  for  the 
butler  he  pushed  aside  the  footman  and  said  :  "  You  might 
as  well  know  how  her  Ladyship  is,  she's  dead,  Mum."  I 
improved  that  occasion  by  casually  mentioning  to  my  friend 
that  I'd  known  her  for  years  asking  me  sackloads  of  ques- 
tions but  there  was  scarcely  a  bushel  of  any  replies  that 
had  reached  her.  Don't  you  think  there  are  many  people 
made  in  a  very  odd  way  ?  Some  people  seem  anxious  to 
impress  you  with  what  they  know  but  never  make  any 
effort  to  know  more.  If  they  live  long  enough  they  run  dry. 
It  is  astounding  the  number  of  dry  people  about.  One 
especially  notices  it  after  one's  return  from  a  time  abroad. 
You  see  people  in  the  same  old  street,  the  same  old  house, 
the  same  old  ignorance.  Nothing  has  moved  since  your 
departure. 

Unfortunately,  the  story  I  now  tell  savours  somewhat  of 
egoism,  but  as  it  depicts  a  noteworthy  trait  in  Gladstone's 
character,  it  must  be  told.  This  writer's  first  acquaintance 
with  the  great  man  commenced  under  circumstances  not 
at  all  likely  to  be  auspicious.  My  brother,  whose  house  was 
exactly  opposite  Gladstone's,  saw  a  good  deal  of  him.  I 
was  at  the  time  an  undergraduate  at  Christ  Church.  Party 
feeling  ran  high  at  Oxford  as  elsewhere.  Gladstone's  was 
not  a  name  to  conjure  by  amongst  blue-blooded  Tories  who 

133 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

are  even  hotter  in  youth  than  in  the  bigotry  of  age.  Those 
indeed  were  days  at  the  Union,  and  such  as  heard  Lord 
Curzon  of  Kedleston  denouncing  the  Liberals  furnished 
themselves  with  memories  unlikely  to  fade.  He  was  amongst 
the  few  orators  that  England  has  of  late  produced,  and  I 
should  say  was  a  speaker  from  his  birth.  I  should  like  to 
hear  what  his  nurse  has  to  say  on  the  subject.  I  am  inclined 
to  think  that  Curzon  was  in  the  Presidential  chair  of  the 
Union,  that  youthful  nursery  of  debate,  when  a  motion 
"  That  in  the  opinion  of  this  House  Mr.  Gladstone  has 
ceased  to  merit  the  confidence  of  the  country  "  was  put 
down  as  the  subject  for  discussion.  The  House  was 
crowded  from  corner  to  corner,  and  the  gallery  contained 
several  noteworthy  members  of  the  Gladstone  family* 
There  was  Talbot,  Conservative  member  for  the  University, 
who  had  married  a  Lyttelton  ;  and  his  brother,  Warden  of 
Keble,  afterwards  Bishop  of  Rochester  ;  there  was  Herbert 
Gladstone,  and  I  think  Henry,  and  one  or  two  of  their 
sisters.  It  was  about  the  time  that  the  Army  and  Navy 
Stores,  lately  instituted,  was  arousing  great  animosity 
amongst  retail  traders,  and  various  co-operative  stores 
were  being  started  throughout  the  country  to  the  antici- 
pated detriment  of  the  old-fashioned  establishments. 

He  was  at  the  time  attempting  to  obtain  the  suffrages 
of,  I  think,  Greenwich,  and  the  local  tradesmen  had  ap- 
proached him  asking  him  if  he  dealt  with  the  co-operative 
stores.  To  these  he  judiciously  replied  that  he  would  not 
dream  of  doing  such  a  thing.  After  the  opener  of  the 
debate  had  made  his  vehement  speech,  there  naturally 
followed  the  counter  denunciation  from  the  Liberal  side, 
and  then,  as  was  arranged  by  our  Party,  my  turn  came. 
Of  that  speech  I  recollect  nothing  save  the  ending,  except 
that  it  was  vehement  and  vitriolic.  I  wound  up  by  de- 

134 


Gladstone 

claring  that  Mr.  Gladstone  need  make  no  merit  of  not 
dealing  with  the  Stores.  What  merit  forsooth  was  his 
for  such  negation  ?  Why  need  he  deal  anywhere  ?  He 
had  ample  sustenance  for  a  lifetime  in  the  eating  of  his  own 
words  on  the  Eastern  Question.  I  then  sat  down  and  there 
was  much  roaring  in  an  excited  House  and  considerable 
laughter  in  which  the  Gladstone  family  joined.  The 
point  is  this,  that  in  a  few  weeks,  when  my  brother  brought 
me  across  the  street  and  presented  me  to  the  great  statesman 
he,  being  himself  a  Christ  Church  man  and  ex-President  of 
the  Union,  and  as  such  taking  a  natural  interest  in  Oxford, 
exclaimed  as  he  took  my  hand  :  "  I  hear  that  you  have 
been  making  yourself  merry  at  my  expense  at  the  Union  !  " 
Mr.  Gladstone,  I  should  say,  had  little  capacity  for 
humour  unless  streaked  with  satire.  It  was  not  easy  for 
him  to  see  the  humorous  side  of  a  thing  at  first  sight.  He 
might  subsequently  do  so,  but  it  would  be  an  afterthought. 
It  would  be  difficult  to  declare  that  there  was  any  super- 
abundance of  humour  in  any  of  his  Cabinets.  There  was 
in  truth  a  depth  and  breadth  of  intellect  in  them  that 
would  be  a  stultifier  in  any  Cabinet  of  to-day.  You  cannot 
easily  reproduce  the  intellect,  for  instance,  of  Roundell 
Palmer  (Lord  Selborne),  or  of  the  Duke  of  Argyll ;  but  it 
would  be  prominently  unfair  to  delete  Ward  Hunt  from 
the  list.  He  was  a  man,  as  I  remember  him,  with  whom  it 
was  impossible  to  be  dull,  and  who  would  always  see  the 
glimmer  of  humour  which  lit  the  twinkle  of  your  eye. 
If  not  a  large  man  intellectually,  he  was  distinctly  great 
physically,  scaling  over  twenty  stone  ;  but  there  was  no 
corresponding  ponderousness  in  his  utterances.  Ward 
Hunt  was  successively  First  Lord  of  the  Admiralty  and 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,  and  it  was  when  he  had  been 
accused  of  some  slidings  in  connection  with  his  Admiralty 

135 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

administration  that  Mr.  Punch  was  witty  at  his  expense. 
At  this  date,  I  cannot  recall  the  exact  words,  but  the  sense 
of  them  ran  as  follows  :  "  Change  of  name  by  Royal  Licence 
— Ward  Hunt  to  Ward  the  Slipper."  You  will  find  an 
account  of  his  son  in  an  after  chapter  entitled  "  Con- 
cerning Sports  and  Sporting." 

And  now  I  must  try  to  record  a  few  of  the  many  note- 
worthy things  this  great  man  said  to  me.  Alas,  that  no 
book  was  kept  at  the  time,  and  alas  that  so  much  is  lost ! 
I  laughingly  once  said  to  him  :  "  Are  you  aware,  Mr. 
Gladstone,  that  they  say  you  don't  know  the  number  of 
your  own  door  ?  "  He  turned  quickly  on  me  those  eagle 
eyes  of  his  and  said  :  "  And  what  if  it  is  so  !  I  never 
burden  my  mind  with  anything  that  anyone  else  can  tell 
me.  I  burden  my  mind  with  what  they  can't.  You  must 
recollect,"  he  continued,  "  that  there  is  a  limit  to  what  the 
brain  can  hold.  Any  Red  Book  can  tell  me  the  whereabouts 
of  my  house,  but  there  are  many  reference  books  that 
cannot  give  me  what  I  want,  and  it's  those  things  I  keep  in 
my  head."  How  often  this  saying  has  held  me  as  I  have 
turned  out  from  memory  Time's  trivialities  by  the  sackful ! 
How  equally  have  I  laboured  to  affix  indelibly  in  remem- 
brance things  which  once  lost  could  never  be  replaced  ! 
Later  on  in  this  volume  the  instincts  of  very  gratitude 
will  necessitate  the  recording  of  great  sayings  by  great 
men  which  I  myself  have  heard,  sometimes  indeed  addressed 
to  me,  and  assuredly  my  life  has  been  the  richer  for  them. 
Such,  in  truth,  are  the  things  worthy  of  remembrance. 

Another  time  I  told  him  of  what  Browning  had  said 
to  me.  That  great  poet  strongly  laid  down  that  no  negative 
should  be  used  where  you  could  possibly  assert  the 
affirmative.  I  was  absolutely  astounded,  for  that  seemed 
to  me  to  reduce  poetry  to  prose.  "  Along  his  lonely 

136 


Gladstone 

way  no  floweret  bloomed  nor  song  of  bird  uplit  the 
shadowland."  "  Surely,  Mr.  Browning,"  I  said,  "  if  you 
delete  the  negative  you  force  me  to  say  in  very  bald 
fashion  *  the  traveller's  way  was  jolly  drear  and  it  was 
deadly  silent  all  round.' '  Nevertheless  the  author  of 
"  The  Ring  and  the  Book "  persisted  in  his  anathema 
of  the  negative.  All  this  I  rehearsed  to  Gladstone, 
who  asserted  :  "  Rules  are  not  made  for  poets ;  the  true 
poet  is  his  own  rule." 

No  man  was  ever  more  carefully  looked  after,  not  even 
Wordsworth  by  his  sister  Dorothy,  than  was  Gladstone 
by  his  wife.  I  don't  think  that  Mrs.  Gladstone  had  one 
thought  in  life  beyond  and  except  "  dear  William."  But 
I  must  say  that  I  felt  it  painful  beyond  words  to  hear  so 
great  a  man  alluded  to  as  "  dear  William."  It  sounded 
an  infinite  bathos.  I  can  recall  but  one  similar  spasm 
which  always  agitated  me  when  I  heard  the  late  Duchess 
of  Rutland  allude  to  her  husband,  a  Cabinet  Minister  as 
well  as  a  Duke,  as  "  John."  The  first  time  I  heard  it,  it 
sounded  unusually  crude.  I  was  the  only  person  at  the 
tea  table,  and  the  Duchess  turning  to  the  Duke  said,  "  John, 
hand  the  cake." 

As,  seemingly,  we  have  touched  the  fringe  of  the 
humorous,  I  may  as  well  mention  incidents  of  which  I  was 
often  the  unwilling  spectator,  and  indeed  there  was  little 
option  left  to  the  observer,  such  was  Mrs.  Gladstone's 
openness  of  character  and  mind.  Before  the  Gladstones' 
move  to  Carlton  House  Terrace,  they  occupied  the  house 
which,  if  my  memory  does  not  mistake,  was  so  long  the 
residence  of  that  great  man,  Sir  Charles  Lyell  (who,  by 
the  way,  appeared  in  feature  to  be  as  much  the  descendant 
of  the  monkey  as  did  the  famous  Darwin.  When  you  got 
to  their  minds,  it  was  another  matter).  This  writer  was 

137 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

at  the  time  frequently  the  guest  of  his  brother,  whose 
house  was  immediately  facing  that  of  the  Gladstones.  My 
bedroom  exactly  confronted  theirs.  Mrs.  Gladstone  had 
an  absolute  mania  for  fresh  air.  Every  window  of  the  house 
was  open,  including  those  of  their  bedroom,  and  blinds 
were  an  inconsequent  superfluity.  Mrs.  Gladstone  was 
also  a  devoted  and  perhaps  indiscreet  tea-drinker,  and  her 
veneration  for  this  orgy  was  actuated  at  times  so  awkward 
that,  what  with  blazing  internal  lights  and  windows  un- 
blushingly  unblinded,  the  common  public  took  their  share 
in  the  domestic  felicities.  It  is  often  and  often  that  I 
myself  have  seen  the  revered  figure  of  Mrs.  Gladstone 
unroyally  disarrayed,  as  she  leant  over  the  windowsill  and 
communicated  to  Henry  or  Herbert,  as  they  twiddled  the 
latchkey  at  the  hall  door,  that  there  was  tea  upstairs. 

Of  course,  every  odd  story  in  London  that  could  not  be 
mothered  on  Mrs.  Learmouth  or  Lady  Beaconsfield  was 
peremptorily  roosted  on  Mrs.  Gladstone.  Thus,  when 
the  latter  lady  was  bidden  to  a  "  dine  and  sleep  "  at  Windsor, 
it  was  strenuously  asserted  that  the  Premier's  wife,  to  avoid 
the  bother  of  superfluous  luggage,  wore  her  dinner  dress 
under  her  outer,  and  so  was  likely,  in  theatrical  phrase, 
to  consummate  a  quick  change.  No  one  loved  such  recitals 
more  than  Queen  Victoria,  and  I  remember  that  my  yarn 
concerning  that  wonderful  personage  known  as  "  Maria 
Marchioness "  (the  then  Dowager  Lady  Ailesbury)  was 
repeated  to  her.  The  story  was  that  Maria  Marchioness, 
being  one  of  a  large  house  party  at  Eaton  Hall,  and 
finding  that  in  the  haste  of  packing  she  had  no  time  for 
bandboxing  her  head-gear,  made  an  ensemble  of  her  three 
hats,  and  wore  them  as  doth  the  Pope  his  triple  crown. 
It  was  a  wonder  to  her  friends  this  unusual  pontifical 
appearance,  as  she  disappeared  from  the  ducal  residence. 

138 


Gladstone 

Mrs.  Gladstone,  unlike  Lady  Salisbury,  had  little  or- 
ganizing capacity,  and  the  menage  in  the  metropolis  was 
equalled  only  by  that  at  Hawarden,  and  there  was  much 
of  happy-go-lucky  in  a  heart  and  mind  more  than  filled 
by  solicitude  for  the  care  and  well-being  of  that  great 
man,  her  husband.  Very  otherwise  were  the  distinctive 
qualities  of  the  great  man  himself.  I  shall  never  forget 
his  showing  me  round  the  library  at  Hawarden.  Every 
book  had  its  place,  and  he  knew  them  all.  And  such  was 
his  knowledge,  even  of  trifles,  and  such  his  kindliness  of 
heart  and  capacity  for  saying  the  gracious  word  (and  may  I 
be  exempted  from  all  charge  of  vanity  in  the  recital,  for 
such  kindliness  is  a  thing  of  gold  that  should  not  be  ignored), 
that  he  actually  said  to  me,  a  person  of  no  importance  : 
"  Here  /  sit ;  and  there,  not  far,  as  you  see,  are  your 
books."  These  beautiful  traits  of  character  are  amongst 
life's  memorable  things,  and  as  such  how  can  they  be  left 
unrecorded  ? 

Mr.  Gladstone's  love  of  poetry,  and  indeed  knowledge 
of  it,  was  sincere  and  large.  He  had  much  of  the  Homeric 
in  his  temperament,  and  a  joy,  if  not  indeed  a  gladness, 
in  country  life,  which  was  more  than  a  wonder  in  one  whose 
great  work  was  mostly  amid  the  masses  of  mankind.  But 
whereas  most  would  have  taken  their  joy  in  country  life 
from  the  rose,  the  lily,  the  crocus,  or  the  daffodil,  his 
Homeric  fancy  centred  more  absolutely  in  his  oaks,  and,  if 
perforce  he  felled  them,  it  is  as  likely  as  not  that  he  per- 
suaded himself  it  was  for  their  good.  There  was  much  of 
the  oak  in  the  Grand  Old  Man  himself,  and  there  were 
not  wanting  many  amongst  millions  whose  one  desire  was 
that  he  himself  could  as  easily  be  felled.  But  an  equal 
was  needed  to  do  so,  and  where  indeed  was  that  antagonist 
to  be  found  ?  Disraeli  had  many  a  try  at  it.  It  is  indeed 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

past  comprehension  what  would  have  happened  if  there  had 
been  no  Gladstone  for  Disraeli  and  no  Disraeli  for  Glad- 
stone. They  were  as  weights  counterbalancing  each  other 
in  the  swinging  pendulum  of  politics.  Nothing  in  the 
petulant  anger  of  these  days  can  in  any  way  approach 
the  polish  and  precision  of  those  barbs  winged  across  the 
table,  the  unerring  shafts  of  subtle  satire.  To-day  as  I 
walk  along  the  misty  streets,  and  all  of  beauty  seems  to  have 
irrevocably  passed,  my  mind  turns  backward  as  I  walk, 
and  again  I  see  that  crowded  House  electric  with  the 
animosities  of  men  as  they  fought  out  the  antagonistic 
issues  which  agitated  those  Titanic  times. 

Mr.  Gladstone  not  only  delighted  in  poetry,  he 
frequently  tried  his  hand  at  it,  not  always  with  success,  it 
is  true,  and  one  cannot  but  think  that  had  Mrs.  Asquith's 
proclaimed  respect  for  him  been  as  sincere  as  it  sounds,  she 
would  have  withheld  the  stanzas  of  which  she  was  the 
inspiration. 

I  had  the  supreme  satisfaction  of  winning  over  the 
great  man  to  agreement,  although  at  first  he  argued  in  every 
way  against  a  statement  of  mine.  The  assertion  was  as 
follows :  From  earliest  youth  I  have  firmly  held,  as  indeed 
riper  experience  forces  me  to  hold  more  strenuously  now, 
that,  whereas,  in  all  other  walks  of  thought  or  achievement, 
the  man  who  furthers  progress,  or  gives  added  excellence 
either  to  Art  or  Beauty,  is  deserving  praise  in  proportion 
to  achievement.  He  is  the  originator  of  that  by  which 
we  are  enriched.  Wherefore  to  him  all  honour.  This 
honour  he  has  not  obtained  otherwise  than  by  the  uphill 
thorny  paths  of  long  labour,  frequent  disheartenments 
and  all  the  discomforts  and  discomfortings  of  time  and 
tears. 

But  with  the  poet  it  is  infinitely  otherwise.  One 

140 


Gladstone 

supreme  electric  moment  of  inspiration  may  make  him 
famous  for  all  time.  Burns  would  have  fulfilled  his  life  in 
following  the  plough  had  not  the  gods  spoken  to  him  in 
whispering  wind  and  revelling  rill.  My  contention  is  that 
the  man  is  nothing  without  the  inspiration.  Is  it  not  there- 
fore the  inspiration  that  we  should  crown  ?  It  is  a 
veritable  truth  that,  when  the  poet  descends  to  mechanism, 
or  the  astute  prominence  of  intellectuality,  from  that 
moment  poetically  he  is  dead,  and  only  the  skilful  and 
somewhat  laboured  writer  is  born.  But  when  man  ceases 
to  be  altogether  himself,  and  yields  himself  as  a  cipher  to 
an  intuition,  if  not  an  inspiration,  beyond  the  grasp  or 
ken  of  ordinary  mortality,  then  for  a  spell  he  mixes  himself 
with  the  Divine,  and  has  a  message  of  Beauty  and  Love 
and  Purport  for  the  ailing  souls  of  men.  And  where  are 
those  beautiful  spirits  to  whom  rightfully  belong  our 
laurels  and  our  epitaphs  of  brass  ?  They  indeed  are  the 
realizers  of  some  beautiful  thought,  and  not  the  poet 
who  poses  as  its  author.  To  some  gentle  spirit,  invisible 
except  in  dream,  belongs  the  inception.  Its  whisper 
in  the  poet's  ear  is  inspiration ;  but  the  man  is 
only  the  medium,  the  deathless  spirit  is  Time's  singing 
voice. 

I  told  Gladstone  of  the  small  place  the  poet  deserves  in 
the  praises  of  men.  He  was  at  first  greatly  amused,  but 
when  he  realized  I  was  in  earnest,  his  language  was  distinctly 
antagonistic,  and  in  every  way  he  belittled  the  idea.  "  I 
confess,"  he  said,  "  that  I  am  unable  to  deny  the  fullest 
praise  to  any  who  enrich  our  thoughts  or  add  to  know- 
ledge,and  the  poets  must  share  in  our  gratitude  in  proportion 
as  they  contribute  like  other  men."  Turning  sharply, 
almost  fiercely,  on  me,  he  said  :  "  And  why  would  you  rob 
the  poet  ?  Has  he  no  share  in  this  ?  Has  he  done 

141 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

nothing  ?  "  I  thereupon  trimmed  a  little  by  adding  that 
of  course  the  poets  deserved  some  consideration  inasmuch 
as,  unlike  the  rest  of  men,  they  placed  themselves  in  a 
position  wherein  there  was  possibility  of  being  in  touch 
with  the  Infinite.  It  is  the  noise  of  life  and  Time's  in- 
cessant turmoil  that  strangles  many  an  immortal  utterance. 
We  cannot  serve  two  masters,  and  it  is  in  that  endeavour 
that  we  experience  the  futility  of  thought.  "  Come  ye 
yourselves  apart  into  a  desert  place,  and  rest  awhile,"  was 
not  said  of  flowerless  lands  of  arid  sand.  Rather  was  it 
some  secluded  spot,  filled  with  the  waiting  silence,  ready  and 
receptive  for  the  distant  Voice. 

This  talk  with  Gladstone  happened  in  a  wonderful  way. 
Past  midnight  I  was  sitting  in  the  Gallery  of  the  House 
of  Commons.  Looking  down  I  saw  the  great  man  gathering 
his  papers  and  he  passed  behind  the  Speaker's  Chair.  An 
inspiration  came  to  me.  As  hard  as  I  could  I  descended 
those  stairs  and  was  round  at  the  Members'  Entrance. 
There,  to  my  delight,  I  saw  Gladstone  emerging.  Living 
opposite  to  him,  and  knowing  he  was  an  ardent  prowler  by 
night,  I  gathered  my  courage  in  my  hands  (remember  I 
was  very  young)  and  went  up  to  him  and  said  :  "Mr.  Glad- 
stone, if  you  are  walking  home,  may  I  walk  with  you  ?  "  He 
said  :  "  Certainly,  come  along."  And  we  walked  through 
St.  James'  Park,  past  Marlborough  House,  up  St.  James' 
Street,  across  Piccadilly  and  into  Bond  Street,  and  so 
to  the  regions  of  Cavendish  Square.  It  was  not  long  after- 
wards that  at  Hawarden,  referring  to  this  walk  and  talk, 
he  said  :  "  I  think  I  am  with  you  in  that  idea  of  yours. 
When  you  told  me  about  meeting  the  gods  halfway,  the 
thought  seemed  feasible,  and  I  may  say  that  I  am  partially 
with  you."  Years  afterwards,  indeed  it  was,  so  to  speak, 
but  yesterday,  I  included  this  conception  of  the  Poet  in 

142 


Gladstone 

the  following  sonnets  contained  in  "  The  Gates  of  Dream." 
If  you  care  for  them,  here  they  are  : 

TRANSMITTED  SONG. 

Within  the  music  of  familiar  things — 

The  sea,  the  night-wind's  whisperings  to  the  pine — 

The  Poet  hearg  an  utterance  divine  : 
And  singeth  as  the  Voice  unto  him  sings  : 
His  song  ascends  on  spiritual  wings  ; 

They're  not  his  own,  these  songs  that  sing  and  shine 

Amid  the  roses  and  the  jessamine, 
And  in  the  silences  the  twilight  brings  : 

They're  not  his  own,  those  voices  from  afar, 

'Tis  only  his  to  listen  and  respond  ; 

Singing  in  him,  there  sounds  the  Great  Beyond, 
As  light  wherewith  the  gold  sun  crowns  the  star  ; 

And,  as  his  spirit  waxes  firm  and  fond, 
He  gathers  echoes  where  the  great  songs  are. 

TRANSMITTED  LIGHT. 

We  praise  the  moon,  and  call  her  Queen  of  Light, 

And  poets  have  made  sonnets  to  a  star, 

We  say,  how  wonderful  their  glories  are, 
Revealing  the  sweet  loveliness  of  night  I 
We  say,  that  but  for  them,  our  blinded  sight 

Would  be  imprisoned  in  the  night's  grim  bar, 

But,  led  by  them,  we  reach  high  Heaven  afar, 
Like  Love,  their  lustre  makes  life's  shadow  bright  : 

But,  of  themselves,  they  have  no  lustre  ;   they 
Are  plenished  by  the  sun's  immortal  ray  : 
Their  light,  transmitted  from  the  sun,  is  blent, 
Shining  from  continent  to  continent : 

And  thus  the  poet  is  but  voiceless  clay, 
But  for  the  pinions  to  his  music  lent. 

But  the  sadder  part  of  the  Poet's  life  has  yet  to  be  sung. 
I  doubt  if  any  Poet's  life  has  been  reasonably  happy.  There 
is  always  the  loneliness  when  the  song  has  passed  and  the 
wing  is  not  swift  or  strong  enough  for  the  uplifting. 

143 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

LIFE'S  SWEETEST  SONG  is  WHEN  THE  NIGHT  is  NIGH. 

This,  of  the  poet  is  »ad  truth  to  say — 

If  he  hath  wings  they  are  but  seldom  spread  ; 

He  hath  less  store  of  smiles  than  tears  unshed  ; 
Living  by  night,  he  loses  half  life's  ray  ; 
His  soul  chafes  ever  to  be  on  its  way ; 

And  when  by  some  fair  fancy  he  is  led, 

"1'is  to  be  left  in  a  far  land  unfed, 
To  grope  through  darkness  back  to  desolate  day  : 

Oh,  Mighty  Dead,  ye  know  it  more  than  I  : 
The  richest  roses  have  the  ripest  thorn  : 

Life's  sweetest  song  is  when  the  night  is  nigh  : 
Yet,  would  ye  change  for  any  monarch  born  ? 

All  things  are  nothing,  forgotten  and  gone  by, 
That  supreme  moment  when  Song  meets  the  Morn  ! 

And  alas  and  alas,  that  the  Great  are  not  as  Immortal  in 
visible  form  as  they  are  in  fame  !  It  was  a  drear  night  when 
altogether  accidentally  I  happened  to  be  on  the  District 
Railway  at  Westminster  about  midnight.  I  saw  on  the  plat- 
form a  diminutive  little  crowd  of  men.  Asking  I  was  told 
that  the  remains  of  Mr.  Gladstone  were  awaited  by  this 
circuitous  method  of  transit  from  Euston  Station.  And 
so  through  the  starlit  night  the  great  man  passed  through 
the  silent  streets,  the  scene  of  so  many  a  crowded  triumph, 
to  the  honour  and  dignity  of  his  rest  in  the  Abbey  amid 
the  Immortals  of  his  land, 


144 


COLONEL    FRED    GORE. 


[To  face  paye  144. 


XII 

CONCERNING    SPORTS    AND    SPORTING 

The  Ineffaceable,  Irreplaceable,  Rollicking  Soul  of  Sport.  A  Sport  at  Birth  is 
Sportsman  to  the  End.  The  Two  John  Watsons — A  Tree-Climber  and  Builder 
of  Herons'  Nests  at  70.  The  late  Lord  Harrington.  Harry  de  Windt.  Colonel 
Seymour  Vandeleur.  Sir  Hercules  Langrishe.  The  late  Christian  Allhusen 
of  Stoke  Court — A  Story  of  a  Statue.  A  Politician  as  a  Sportsman — Recollec- 
tions of  Walter  Long.  Colonel  Fortescue  Tynte  and  his  Salmon.  "  The 
Call  of  the  Broom."  A  Baronet  dines  with  a  Crossing-Sweeper.  An  Estate 
saved  by  a  Spaniel.  The  late  Lord  Guilford.  The  late  Sir  John  Astley  and 
his  Wager.  Inspiration  in  Sport  as  well  as  in  Art.  A  Peer  does  me  over  a 
Dog.  Dog  Loss  recouped  by  an  Extraordinary  Bet.  The  late  Lord  Cunyngham. 
His  Bet  originates  the  "  Roadways  of  London." 

r  I  ^ALK  of  your  politicians  ;  eulogize  your  poets ;  but 
what  would  old  England  be  without  her  sports- 
men ?  They  are  the  inherent  heart  of  the  nation.  Its  throb 
vibrates  around  the  race-course,  quickens  to  impetuosity 
at  sight  of  "  bullfinch,"  and  marks  as  it  were  the  very 
heart-beat  of  life  around  the  boxing-ring,  and  when  the 
footballers  seethe  and  surge  from  goal  to  goal. 

Though  the  war  deletes  many  an  honoured  tradition 
and  the  demarcations  of  our  olden  delights  are  eradicated 
or  removed,  and  many  dreams  lie  numbered  with  the 
dead,  one  thing  that  Time  can  never  erase  or  any  age 
enfeeble  is  the  ineffaceable,  irreplaceable,  rollicking  soul 
of  Sport  ! 

And  what  will  not  a  man  do  for  it  ?  Although  may- 
hap we  ride  to  Death,  we  shall  outride  Dull  Care.  The 

145  10 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

mother-in-law  is  forgotten  and  the  wife's  last  utterance, 
which  somehow  never  is  her  last. 

Joyous  as  the  lark  we  rise  at  dawn,  so  be  to  reach 
the  covertside  in  time.  Vanity  at  the  start  as  regards 
our  spick-and-span  turn-out,  there  is  no  trace  of  it  on 
our  return,  begrimed  by  mire  and  defaced  by  mud.  At 
dinner  we  will  even  stoop  to  mendacity,  so  that  as  none 
were  ahead  of  us  in  the  race  none  shall  surpass  us  in 
romance. 

Oh,  what  sacrifices  will  we  not  make  to  you,  ye  gods 
of  Sport !  Jeopardizing  life  and  limb  is  as  nothing.  We 
seek  no  reward.  There  is  no  crown  at  stake.  As  the  duck 
swims  or  skylark  sings  this  is  our  nature,  and  so  it  is  that 
whether  in  the  tropic  zones  or  forests  where  malaria  reigns, 
within  the  trenches  or  battling  up  the  bristling  sides  of 
citadels,  the  quenchless  courage  of  the  Briton  stands  him 
good. 

A  sport  at  birth  is  sportsman  to  the  end.  "  Age 
cannot  wither  him,  nor  custom  stale  his  infinite  variety." 
These  words  addressed  by  Domitius  Enobarbus,  the  friend 
of  Antony,  to  Maecenas,  the  intimate  of  Caesar,  refer  to 
Cleopatra.  With  apologies  to  the  Bard  of  Avon  I  alter 
the  personal  pronouns.  No  modern  words  could  be  more 
appropriate  in  describing  the  sportsman's  imperishable 
instinct. 

I  will  tell  you  a  wonderful  story,  which  illustrates  how 
the  instincts  of  sport  outlive  the  inroads  of  time.  During 
my  many  visits  to  Castle  Howard,  the  Irish  place  so  beauti- 
fully situated  above  Moore's  celebrated  "  Meeting  of  the 
Waters,"  I  used  constantly  to  ride  over  and  see  that  dear 
old  veteran  sportsman,  Mr.  Booth,  father-in-law  of  the  well- 
known  John  Watson,  Master  of  the  Meath  Hounds,  and  polo 
player.  A  wonderful  sport  was  dear  old  Booth !  Greatly 

146 


Concerning  Sports  and  Sporting 

interested  in  a  lake  I  was  building,  he  said  he  also  must 
have  one,  so  we  set  to  work  at  his  place.  When  the  lake 
was  created,  he  was  mad  to  have  herons  there,  and  moved 
heaven  and  earth  to  engender  a  heronry,  but  all  to  no 
avail.  He  thereupon,  being  well  over  seventy,  collected 
twigs  and  sticks,  and,  affixing  them  to  his  back,  essayed  the 
task  of  climbing  the  pine  trees.  This,  notwithstanding 
the  difficulty  and  peril,  he  successfully  accomplished,  and 
when  at  the  summit  built  the  most  seductive  of  nests. 
We  then  secreted  ourselves  and  watched  ;  we  saw  several 
supercilious  married  couples  pass,  but  finally  there  came 
along  a  lazy  honeymoon  pair  who  ostensibly  wished  to 
spare  themselves  all  unnecessary  trouble.  They  were 
sick  of  house  hunting.  Here  was  a  residence  ready  made. 
To  spare  them  further  fatigue  old  Booth  had  bought  some 
eggs  and  these  he  had  placed  in  the  nest.  The  lazy  ones 
were  infinitely  satisfied,  and  in  due  course  hatched  out  a 
brood  which  they  had  the  insolence  to  call  their  offspring. 

Many  are  the  tales  I  could  tell  of  the  John  Watsons, 
a  family  infinitely  to  the  fore  in  everything  appertaining 
to  sport.  John  Watson  senior  was  M.F.H.  County  Kil- 
kenny, while  John  Watson  junior  was  the  Master  of  the 
Meath  Hounds.  When  the  senior  was  well  stricken  in  age 
Kilkenny  played  a  polo  match  against  Meath,  the  father 
being  against  his  own  son.  There  was  the  loss  of  an  eye 
somewhere,  and  I  forget  what  equal  catastrophe  befell 
the  son. 

Who  that  has  watched  him  can  ever  forget  Lord 
Harrington  of  almost  equal  age  playing  polo  at  Hurlingham  ? 
He  had  most  excellent  polo  grounds  at  Elvaston  Castle, 
his  place  in  Derbyshire.  White's  Club,  that  ancient  resort 
of  sportsmen,  had  no  finer  sport  than  he,  and  he  was  a 
bit  of  an  author  too,  as  testified  by  his  book  "  Polo  Pony 

147  10* 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

Stud  Book  "  (Vol.  I).  It  seemed  a  pitiable  paradox  that 
his  brother  Fitzroy,  who  predeceased  him,  was  heir  to  this, 
howbeit  his  outdoor  exercise  was  mostly  in  a  bath  chair. 

Good  old  Harry  de  Windt,  the  well-known  traveller, 
is  several  times  over  a  sportsman,  and  has  followed  his 
bent  in  many  a  distant  clime.  Further  than  this  one  of 
the  best  pals  a  man  could  have,  and  his  books  are  a  joy 
to  many. 

Colonel  Seymour  Vandeleur,  Irish  Guards,  my  brother- 
in-law,  had  a  fine  collection  of  lion  and  tiger  skins  shot 
by  himself  in  many  a  distant  wild.  His  friend,  Sir  Cecil 
Lowther,  brother  of  the  late  Speaker,  accompanied  him 
to  unknown  portions  of  Africa,  with  the  consequence  that 
we  have  maps  of  many  distant  untraversed  territories,  for 
which  Vandeleur  received  the  Gold  Medal  of  the  Royal 
Geographical  Society. 

There  exists  no  more  breezy  sportsman  in  the  land 
than  Sir  Hercules  Langrishe  of  Knocktopher  Castle,  Kil- 
kenny. I  have  never  laughed  so  much  in  my  life  as  when 
I  watched  Herky's  departure  from  an  evening  At  Home  I 
gave  some  years  ago  in  London.  This  departure  took  place 
on  the  top  of  a  four-wheeled  cab,  Sir  James  and  Lady 
Langrishe,  his  parents,  being  inside.  He  is  Master  of 
the  Kilkenny  Hounds  and  has  won  the  Queen's  Cup  at 
Cowes.  A  typical  Irishman,  I  cannot  believe  that  Dull 
Care  could  ride  with  him. 

A  wonderful  old  sportsman  was  Mr.  Christian  Allhusen, 
an  energetic  Dane,  who  amassed  a  large  fortune  in  the 
manufacture  of  chemicals.  He  was  an  old  man  when  I 
knew  him  and  showed  me  great  kindness  and  affection,  and 
I  have  great  esteem  for  his  memory  and  admiration  for 
his  plucky  career.  His  ardour  as  a  sportsman  was  not 
equalled  by  his  capacity,  and  to  this  day  I  can  remember 

148 


Concerning  Sports  and  Sporting 

my  feelings  when  for  the  third  time  in  succession  I  drew 
him  as  next  neighbour  in  the  butts  grouse-shooting. 
Although  commercially  he  was  a  man  of  illimitable 
integrity,  he  was  absolutely  unconscionable  as  a  sports- 
man. He  would  fire  at  your  birds  and  sometimes  claim 
the  grouse  he  missed.  This  cross-firing  necessitated  the 
cutting  of  fresh  turf  and  the  building  up  of  the  butt  so  as 
to  preserve  our  lives.  "  We've  got  to  keep  our  heads," 
as  my  keeper  wittily  observed.  But  the  misfortune  of 
the  matter  was  that,  the  added  turf  being  supremely  dry, 
the  vigorous  moor  breezes  raised  the  granny  of  a  dust 
which  found  its  way  into  the  shooter's  eyes  just  when  the 
approaching  bird  made  perspicuity  of  vision  a  moment- 
ous necessity.  At  Mr.  Allhusen's  place,  on  the  borders  of 
Buckinghamshire,  I  often  shot  over  his  well-preserved 
coverts,  and  as  his  years  increased,  was  frequently  the 
only  guest  invited  to  accompany  him.  He  would  shoot 
along  certain  drives,  at  the  end  of  which  he  would  be 
assisted  on  to  a  small  cob,  and  thus  transport  himself  to 
the  next  shoot.  For  his  age  he  was  a  wonderful  shot,  and 
to  the  last  evinced  the  greatest  pleasure  in  the  sport. 

I  cannot  but  recall  the  episode  of  a  statue.  It  appears 
that  Mr.  Allhusen  throughout  youth  and  maturity  was  most 
orthodox  in  his  ideals  of  art.  But  as  age  crept  on,  these 
ideals  were  considerably  amplified.  The  misfortune  was 
that  Mrs.  Allhusen's  ideas  were  not  on  the  move,  and  she 
retained  to  the  end  those  rigours  of  unwelcome  to 
anything  expansive  in  conception  or  execution  or  that  in 
any  way  showed  signs  of  fidelity  to  fact  in  pictorial  or 
sculptural  art. 

At  this  stage  the  old  gentleman  made  a  tour  in  Italy, 
and  there  became  enamoured  of  a  life  size  similitude  of  a 
nymph  in  the  nude.  This  he  annexed  and  had  it  trans- 

149 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

ported  to  Stoke  Court.  There  was  naturally  a  great  fore- 
gathering of  the  family  for  the  unpacking.  Those  were 
evil  hours  for  Allhusen. 

Now  I  must  tell  you  that,  when  you  descended  the 
staircase  arrayed  in  your  dinner  toggery,  you  passed 
through  an  apartment  which  was  an  ante-room  to  the 
dining-hall.  It  was  in  this  apartment  that  the  guests 
assembled  previous  to  the  announcement  of  dinner.  In 
its  centre  was  a  circular  ottoman  enclosing  a  pedestal. 
It  was  upon  this  pedestal  that  our  host  elected  to  enshrine 
his  new  love.  She  was  manifestly  conspicuous.  There 
were  no  other  statues  in  the  room  to  bear  her  company 
and  share  with  her  the  prominence  of  her  generous  beauty. 
She  enthralled  and  held  your  vision,  and  the  young  girls 
did  not  like  it.  Neither  did  Mrs.  Allhusen.  She  absolutely 
refused  to  go  in  to  dinner.  She  came  to  me,  with  tears 
running  down  her  cheeks,  and  said,  "  Mr.  Allhusen  is  fond 
of  you,  cannot  you  influence  him  to  remove  this  disgusting 
statue  ?  "  I  ventured  to  remind  her  that  all  was  beauti- 
ful in  art,  and  that  art  atones  for  audacity.  "  Art  fiddle- 
sticks," she  fiercely  rejoined,  "  it  is  nothing  less  than 
disgusting." 

I  recall  from  memory,  so  cannot  claim  to  be  accurate, 
a  paragraph  in  a  letter  from  the  poet,  Byron,  as  quoted 
in  Moore's  Life,  which  recorded  a  scene  witnessed  by  him 
in  a  picture  gallery.  An  old  lady  with  elevated  lorgnette 
had  been  gazing  at  a  presentment  of  a  damsel  in  the  nude. 
Dropping  her  glasses,  she  turned  and  said :  "  Oh,  the 
vulgarity  of  it !  "  to  which  the  poet  said,  "  Madam,  the 
vulgarity  is  less  in  the  picture  than  in  the  remark." 

The  old  man  made,  I  am  told,  fifty-two  wills,  in  none 
of  which,  save  the  last,  was  his  grandson  mentioned.  The 
ultimate  testament  left  his  grandson  the  house  and  estate  of 


Concerning  Sports  and  Sporting 

Stoke  Court,  considerable  shares  in  the  chemical  works, 
and  seven  hundred  thousand  pounds  of  ready  money. 
I  remember  the  old  man  telling  me  as  we  were  sitting 
the-a-the  over  the  madeira,  of  which  he  was  such  a  con- 
noisseur, the  story  of  how  he  would  most  certainly  have 
missed  the  great  fortune  he  enjoyed  but  for  the  generosity 
of  a  friend.  (He  left,  I  believe,  over  a  million.)  The 
works  were  at  Newcastle,  and  the  times  were  bad.  Week 
after  week  the  plucky  proprietor  experienced  more  and 
more  difficulty  in  rinding  those  inexorable  week-end  wages. 
At  last  one  Saturday  came  when  this  was  an  impossibility. 
Every  contrivance  of  credit  had  been  exploited,  and  the 
man,  confident  in  the  possession  of  a  great  property,  was 
nerving  himself  to  see  the  wreckage  of  his  labour  ;  and 
alas  for  those  long  years  of  spirited  self-sacrifice  !  The 
broken-hearted  man  wandered  down  and  stood  on  the 
bridge  watching  the  sluggish  flow  of  the  dark  waters 
beneath.  After  a  time,  he  heard  his  name  called  out  in 
breezy  tones,  "  Hello,  Allhusen,  what  the  devil  are  you  doing 
here  ?  Fve  lost  my  connection  and  am  stranded  in  New- 
castle for  an  hour.  What  a  chance  our  meeting  !  "  The 
end  of  this  providence  was  that  the  friend  helped  Allhusen 
over  the  stile,  and  from  that  day  there  was  no  looking 
back.  And  it  was  a  matter  of  millions  that  the  old  man 
left.  How  many  moneyed  men  are  there,  I  should  like  to 
know,  who,  if  they  lay  adying  could  thank  God  for  the 
talent  or  the  genius  they  have  helped  !  I  was  staying  at 
Stoke  Court  shortly  after  the  grandson's  succession,  and  he 
and  I  were  bidden  to  an  evening  party  given  by  Mr.  Bryant 
(of  Bryant  and  May).  Naturally  the  young  heir  was  of 
interest  to  the  matrons,  and  indeed  not  seldom  to  the 
maidens.  Next  morning  at  breakfast  his  mother  asked 
him  how  he  had  enjoyed  himself,  and  with  questionable 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

taste  he  rejoined,  "  It  would  have  been  passable  but  for 
the  mothers."  For  the  life  of  me  I  could  not  avoid  saying 
"  What  can  you  expect,  Henry,  if  you  will  go  to  the  house 
of  a  match-maker  ?  " 

In  my  boyhood  a  great  sportsman  in  Ireland  was  old 
Warburton,  whose  cousin,  Dr.  Warburton,  Dean  of  Elphin, 
was  afterwards  to  become  a  great  friend  of  mine.  There 
was  the  difference  of  the  zones  between  the  kinsmen. 
What  old  Warburton  knew  not  of  a  horse,  was  unknowable. 
I  should  doubt  if  the  Dean  had  even  been  on  the  back  of 
one.  He  was  accounted  the  best  judge  in  Ireland,  which 
is  saying  much  of  a  land  where  men  study  their  mounts 
as  monks  ought  to  study  their  Bibles.  When  I  was  in  my 
teens  I  remember  his  saying  to  me,  "  When  the  Divil 
wanted  to  carry  off  more  lies,  he  invented  the  horse,  and 
on  a  horse  he  saddles  more  lies  than  you  could  pack  in  a 
pantechnicon.  If  the  Lard  Leftinint  came  to  you  and  on 
his  bended  knees  towled  you  a  yarn  of  a  horse,  tak'  me 
advice  an'  walk  away  an'  don't  belave  a  word  he  says  !  " 

A  few  years  later  he  did  me  a  good  turn.  I  was  at 
the  Curragh  with  my  brother-in-law,  and  intended  going 
over  by  the  night  mail  en  route  to  Oxford.  About  noon 
a  man  passed  me  in  a  cart.  I  took  a  great  fancy  to  the 
horse.  Stopping  the  driver  I  asked  him,  would  he  do 
a  deal.  Paddy  was  nothing  loth,  and  I  told  him  to  drive 
round  to  Mr.  Warburton.  Warburton  confided  to  me, 
"  You  get  that  horse,  if  you  have  to  carry  him  to  Oxford." 
The  horse  accompanied  me  that  night  to  Holyhead  and  we 
arrived  together  next  day  at  the  University.  I  ran  him 
at  Aylesbury,  where  he  was  jockeyed  by  a  nephew  of  the 
Duke  of  Westminster,  Robert  Shaw  Stewart,  now  a 
Reverend  Divine.  He  (the  horse,  not  the  Divine)  was  the 
best  cross-country  mount  I  ever  set  legs  across,  and  showed 

152 


Concerning  Sports  and  Sporting 

the  lead  on  many  an  occasion  over  all  nasty  Irish  bits  that 
stopped  the  way  in  miry  days. 

I  bought  him  atween  shafts  for  twenty-two  pounds 
and  subsequently  sold  him  at  Tattersalls  two  years  later 
for  over  three  figures. 

There  was  a  great  to-do  at  Oxford  in  my  time.  During 
the  longest  run  of  that  or  any  other  season  Lord  Dun- 
garvan,  the  present  Lord  Cork,  had  the  misfortune  to  over- 
ride his  mount.  As  his  father,  the  late  Earl,  was  then 
Master  of  the  Buckhounds,  there  was  considerable  promin- 
ence accorded  to  the  catastrophe,  and  people  from  the 
Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals  poured  into  the  Uni- 
versity city  by  trainfuls.  Oh,  there  was  a  nice  pother 
about  that ! 

Walter  Long  (now  Viscount  Long  of  Wraxall)  was  a 
great  follower  to  hounds  in  his  younger  days,  and  rarely 
missed  a  meet.  Many  men  deny  themselves  much  for 
their  native  land,  and  I  have  often  thought  that  the 
strenuous  political  work  done  by  Long  throughout  the 
length  of  his  life  must  have  cost  him  many  a  pang  in 
the  loss  to  him  of  the  sport  he  loves. 

Walter  Long,  after  he  had  "  gone  down  "  from  the 
House,  remained  up  for  the  hunting  (this  seems  an 
Irishism  but  isn't),  and  in  those  days  devoted  the  time 
subsequently  concentrated  to  the  pastime  of  politics  to  the 
playground  of  sport.  He  was  most  liberal  in  mounting 
his  friends.  He  had  many  friends.  All  the  Longs  are 
sportsmen,  and  Walter's  grandfather,  old  Mr.  Hume-Dick 
of  Humewood,  used  to  go  careering  over  the  estate  on  a 
cob  when  he  was  eighty. 

What  memories  the  mention  of  the  Kildare  Hunt 
revives  in  most  of  us  !  What  sportsman  is  there  that 
cloes  not  consider  his  past  impoverished  if  he  has  not  had 

153 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

experience  of  its  runs  ?  It  was  difficult  to  find  a  man  in 
the  county  who  was  not  a  born  sport. 

It  was  worth  hearing  a  late  popular  Master  of  the 
Hunt,  Colonel  Fortescue  Tynte,  relate  how  he  caught  a 
salmon  in  a  hillside  cottage.  It  appears  that  he  was  on  the 
upstream  side  of  a  bridge,  casting  for  salmon  in  a  pool 
underneath.  Suddenly  he  had  an  overwhelming  rise,  and 
the  fish  started  off  at  full  fin  down  stream.  Aided  by  the 
torrent,  it  went  at  a  terrific  pace,  and  the  Colonel,  to  ease 
his  tackle,  followed  as  best  he  could.  He  ran  along  the 
tow  path,  or  waded  river-side  of  the  bushes,  for  some  time, 
till  suddenly  the  salmon,  leaping  out  of  the  water,  made  up 
a  bit  of  a  hill  slope  and  landed  in  a  cottage.  The  Colonel 
left  his  rod  outside,  and  led  by  the  trend  of  his  tackle 
followed  into  the  cabin,  and  found  his  quarry  under  a  bed. 
It  proved  to  be  a  mongrel  terrier,  and  the  owners 
threatened  to  summon  him  for  trespass  and  injury  to  the 
dog,  but  he  retorted  that  as  a  magistrate  he  must  summon 
them  for  being  in  possession  of  his  property  under  suspicious 
circumstances,  and  there  the  matter  ended.  But  I  must 
add  that  there  was  some  difficulty,  not  unattended  by 
personal  peril,  in  regaining  possession  of  the  embedded  fly. 

I  recall  another  story  which  years  ago  was  round  and 
about  Kildare.  It  was  connected  with  my  dear  old  friend, 
Archdeacon  de  Burgh,  with  whom  years  after  I  so  often 
played  chess.  The  Archdeacon  of  Kildare  was  at  the  time 
of  the  story  only  a  curate.  Mr.  Beauman  of  Forenaughts 
had  four  daughters.  They  were  mighty  sportswomen, 
and  to  be  met  with  at  every  meet.  Notwithstanding  this 
attraction,  they  were  at  the  time  all  unmarried.  One 
afternoon  Mr.  Beauman  turned  up  at  the  Kildare  Street 
Club  in  Dublin  looking  very  woebegone.  "  What's  wrong, 
Beauman  ?  "  said  an  antique  crony.  "  The  Lord  has 


Concerning  Sports  and  Sporting 

struck  me  a  grievous  blow,"  responded  Beauman.  "  The 
divil  he  has  !  "  rejoined  the  antique,  "  and  what's  that  ?  " 
"  Maurice  de  Burgh,  the  curate,  has  proposed  for 
Henrietta."  "  See  here,  old  man,"  said  the  antiquated 
one,  "  go  home  and  on  your  bended  knees  pray  the  Lord 
Almighty  to  strike  you  three  other  blows  like  it."  Kildare 
Street  Club  was  the  scene  of  many  a  ready  witticism.  I  can 
recall  another.  A  well-known  aged  sportsman,  when  quite 
stricken  in  years,  had  married  a  young  wife.  One  day  he 

came  into  the  Club  jubilant.  "  Mrs.  S has  presented 

me  with  a  bouncing  boy,"  he  said.  A  friend,  taking  him 
into  a  corner,  whispered,  "  Tell  me,  Tom,  whom  do  you 
suspect  ?  " 

The  audacity  of  the  native-born  Irishman  is  mostly 
past  belief.  There  was  a  well-known  rake  of  a  man  with  a 
genuine  Irish  name  which  most  elderly  Irishmen  will  spot, 
for  besides  his  own  nefarious  celebrity  he  was  the  son  of  a 
very  respected  and  well-placed  clergyman.  He  (the  son, 
not  his  Reverence)  came  to  see  my  brother-in-law,  and  after 
his  departure  an  overcoat  was  missed.  Weeks  after,  the 
late  owner  of  the  coat  met  the  new  proprietor  wearing  it, 
but  of  course  it  was  altered  and  done  up.  Whereupon 
Gildea  says  to  him,  "  You  don't  think  I  can't  recognize 
my  coat  though  you  have  turned  it  inside  out  ?  "  "  Faith  ! 
call  me  anything  that  you  like,  but  don't  dare  to  say  that 
I'm  a  turncoat.  For  all  I  may  do,  I'm  honest  to  my 
principles."  Such  is  the  aplomb  with  which  an  Irishman 
can  meet  a  compromising  situation. 

The  late  Sir  William  Eden,  who  was  at  one  time  Master 
of  the  South  Durham  Hounds,  had  the  family  instinct  for 
sport.  He  was  always  exceptionally  well  mounted  and  I 
have  been  told  that  most  of  his  horses  were  thoroughbreds. 
He  once  asked  me,  did  I  find  that  his  brother  had  much  of 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

a  temper.  I  told  him  he  had  his  share.  Whereupon  he 
said  that  his  father,  the  late  Baronet,  would  have  been  alive 
now  but  for  his  infirmity  in  this  respect.  It  appears  from 
what  his  son  told  me  that  the  former  Sir  William  was 
going  out  hunting,  and  his  valet  brought  him  odd  hunting 
boots,  which  put  him  into  such  a  violent  rage  that  he  died 
of  apoplexy  in  his  chair.  I  am  glad  to  say  that  what  Sir 
William  called  the  "  Eden  temper  "  does  not  seem  to  have 
been  inherited  by  the  many  members  of  the  family  whom  I 
have  known. 

Another  peculiarity  of  the  family  is  that  they  represent 
the  only  peerage  taken  in  nomenclature  from  America, 
inasmuch  as  Sir  Robert  Eden  of  Maryland  married  the 
only  sister  and  co-heir  of  the  last  Lord  Baltimore.  In 
addition  to  this  collateral  representation,  I  don't  think 
I  should  be  far  wrong  in  saying  that  the  Edens  pos- 
sessed the  only  baronetcy  named  from  America,  as  they 
have  a  baronetcy  of  Maryland  as  well  as  the  older  creation. 
The  Independence  of  the  American  States  was  an  im- 
poverishing matter  for  the  Eden  family,  robbing  them  of 
large  portions  of  Maryland,  though  the  shorn  honour  is 
still  held  by  the  head  of  the  family.  Sir  William  supple- 
mented his  sporting  proclivities  by  taking  up  Art,  and  for 
many  years  had  a  chalet  at  Paris  Plage,  where  he  devoted 
himself  to  painting.  His  wife,  a  daughter  of  Sir  William 
Grey,  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  women  of  her  time. 
Their  daughter  is  the  wife  of  Lord  Brooke,  heir  to  the 
Earldom  of  Warwick. 

Before  passing  to  other  subjects  I  am  constrained  to  give 
you  an  extraordinary  story  traditionally  repeated  in  the 
Eden  family.  It  was  often  told  by  Sir  Frederick  Morton 
Eden  and  by  his  son,  the  Primus  of  Scotland.  It  appears 
that  Sir  Frederick,  passing  to  and  fro  across  St.  James's 

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Concerning  Sports  and  Sporting 

Square  to  his  Club,  would  often  stop  and  give  the  tattered 
crossing-sweeper  a  shilling.  This  went  on  for  a  matter  of 
years,  till  one  day,  as  Eden  was  passing  along,  the  crossing- 
sweeper  said  to  him,  "  Would  you  mind,  Sir,  if  I  spoke  to 
you  for  a  minute  or  two  ?  "  "  Not  at  all, "  responded  Sir 
Frederick.  "  I  am  going  to  ask  you,  Sir,  a  very  strange 
thing,  but  I  hope  you  will  humour  me.  I  want  you  to  come 
and  dine  with  me  to-morrow  night,"  adding,  "  I  will  give 
you  a  damn  good  dinner."  Sir  Frederick,  needless  to  say, 
was  flabbergasted  and  fairly  taken  aback.  He  fumbled  out, 
"  Well,  I  don't  know  about  that ;  do  you  want  me  so  very 
much  ?  "  The  matter  ended  by  the  baronet  consenting  to 
go,  and  he  was  given  the  address,  which,  to  his  surprise,  was 
a  very  good  one.  The  following  evening,  to  his  additional 
amazement,  he  entered  a  beautiful,  well-ordered  house, 
and  was  met  by  his  host  in  full  evening  toggery.  It  turned 
out  that  the  man  was  a  gentleman  by  birth,  who  had  fallen 
on  hard  times  and  taken  up  the  crossing  in  St.  James's 
Square,  which  he  had  held  for  many  years.  After  he  had 
been  there  some  time  and  had  grown  accustomed  to  his 
calling,  a  distant  cousin  left  him  a  competency,  but  what 
he  quaintly  termed  "  The  Call  of  the  Broom  "  was  too 
irresistible  for  him,  and  back  to  his  tattered  clothes  and 
crossing  he  needs  must  go.  Did  you  ever  hear  a  stranger 
story  ?  I  really  think  he  deserves  a  place  amongst  the 
good  old  sports. 

Proficiency  in  any  particular  species  of  sport  rarely 
comes  to  a  man  unless  undertaken  early  in  life,  but  I  can 
give  you  a  strange  instance  to  the  contrary.  Frederick 
Morton  Eden,  a  son  of  the  Primus  of  Scotland,  and  for  many 
years  heir  presumptive  to  the  Windlestone  Hall  estate, 
and  its  brace  of  baronetcies,  was  a  Wet  Bob  at  Eton,  and 
consequently  had  never  played  cricket  when  he  matriculated 

157 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

at  Christ  Church,  Oxford.  Yet,  mirabile  dictu,  he  won  his 
Blue  and  therefore  played  for  the  'Varsity.  I  should  say 
that  this  is  almost  a  record.  Eden  scored  another  success, 
much  noised  about  at  the  time,  when  he  won  a  wager  against 
Sir  John  Astley,  commonly  known  as  "  The  Mate."  Astley 
was  one  of  the  best  known  sportsmen  of  his  day,  a  good, 
all-round  man  and  a  soldier,  and  Crimean  veteran,  who 
ended  his  military  career  as  Colonel  of  the  Scots  Guards. 
Reputed  to  be  the  fastest  hurdler  in  the  Army,  Eden  was 
apparently  injudicious  enough  to  challenge  him.  The 
contest  accordingly  took  place  to  the  discomfiture  of 
Astley,  whereupon  Sir  John  declared  himself  as  dissatisfied, 
stating  that  had  the  length  of  the  course  been  different, 
the  result  would  have  been  otherwise.  Eden's  reply  invited 
Astley  to  choose  his  own  course  and  length  and  replay  the 
match.  This  was  done  and  Astley  was  infinitely  more 
worsted  in  the  second  match  than  in  the  first.  Whilst  upon 
the  subject  of  this  match,  which  made  no  little  noise 
at  the  time,  I  might  as  well  give  you  what  I  consider  to 
be  an  interesting  sidelight  on  the  sporting  proclivities  of 
the  day.  About  a  week  before  the  second  match  was 
played,  Eden  was  at  his  tailor's,  and  casually  made  inquiries 
regarding  his  account.  Being  informed  about  this  matter 
and  requested  not  to  trouble  about  it,  "  unless,"  added 
the  man,  "  you  would  like  it  double  or  quits ;  for  really, 
Mr.  Eden,  I  know  well  what  you  are,  Sir,  but  I  can't  think 
that  Sir  John  won't  come  in  first  this  game ;  it's  almost 
against  reason  with  all  the  practice  he's  had  in  the  game,  and 
he's  on  his  mettle  too."  "  All  right,"  said  Eden,  "  done 
with  you — double  or  quits."  The  day  after  Eden's  second 
victory  he  received  from  the  tailor  his  bill  receipted.  Now 
will  you  tell  me  why  I  haven't  a  tailor  like  that  ?  Lord  ! 
what  a  well-dressed  man  I'd  be,  and  even  my  relatives 

158 


Concerning  Sports  and  Sporting 

would  begin  to  think  I  could  write  a  sonnet !  It  shows 
the  all-roundness  of  Astley's  antagonist,  Eden  not  only  won 
his  cricket  Blue  as  stated,  but  rowed  in  the  Christ  Church 
Eight,  was  a  wonderful  shot,  and  with  all  these  gifts,  had 
sufficiency  of  brain  to  gain  for  himself  a  Fellowship  of  All 
Souls.  The  Fellows  of  that  day  were  all  men  of  distinction  : 
the  late  Lord  Salisbury,  the  Premier,  was  one  of  his  con- 
temporaries. It  may  not  be  generally  known  that  a  man 
desirous  of  a  Fellowship  of  All  Souls  had  to  prove  "  Founder's 
Kin  " — and  one  is  safe  in  saying  that  birth  was  an  essential. 
It  might  assuredly  be  called  the  first  club  in  Europe. 

The  late  Lord  Guilford,  himself  maternally  an  Eden, 
was  a  prominent  sportsman,  and  the  devil  across  country. 
He  possessed  a  picture  which,  though  indeed  not  much  of 
a  painting,  used  often  to  rivet  me.  I  loved  looking  at  it, 
for  it  had  a  pathos  of  its  own.  It  appears  that  in  early 
Georgian  times,  when  the  prevalent  craze  for  wagering  was 
at  its  height  and  the  ruin  of  many  a  noble  family,  a  dispute 
arose  between  a  North  of  the  day  and  his  neighbour  as  to 
which  estate  was  the  best  as  regards  partridge,  and  a  wager 
was  actually  made  that  both  estates  should  simultaneously 
be  shot  over  and  the  winner  should  possess  both  properties. 
The  day  was  fixed  and  the  event  took  place,  with  the  result 
that  North  lost  by  one  bird.  The  painting  depicts  the 
whole  party  in  their  laces  and  ruffles,  as  they  sat  over  their 
port  after  dinner.  A  flunkey  has  opened  the  door,  and 
a  very  dear  old  spaniel,  a  love  of  a  dog,  is  seen  laying  a 
partridge  at  the  feet  of  his  master.  The  bird  made 
a  draw  :  the  dog  saved  the  estate  to  the  Norths. 

The  late  Lord  Guilford  had  a  long  minority,  as  had 
also  his  son,  the  present  peer.  The  late  man  constructed 
a  race-course  at  Waldershare,  his  place  in  Kent  ;  and  it  is 
said  that  there  used  to  be  races  at  midnight,  bare-backed,  the 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

riders  being  in  the  nude.  Of  the  many  mad  things  recorded 
of  those  sporting  days,  I  must  recall  this.  Guilford  had  a 
large  party  at  Waldershare  for  some  forthcoming  racing 
fixture  in  the  park.  A  friend  of  his,  who  was  a  member 
of  the  house  party,  suddenly  declared  his  intention  of 
returning  to  town.  Whether  there  was  a  lady  in  the  matter 
I  do  not  know.  Guilford  was  very  irate  and  told  his  friend 
that  he  could  do  what  he  liked  after  the  races,  but  he'd  be 
damned  if  he  budged  an  inch  till  then.  In  spite  of  every- 
thing that  could  be  done,  the  man  left.  As  he  was  leaving, 
Guilford  said  to  him,  "  You  don't  think  so,  but  as  sure  as 
you're  alive,  you'll  be  at  the  races."  After  he  had  gone, 
Guilford  telegraphs  to  Canterbury,  stating  that  there  had 
been  a  large  robbery  of  plate  in  the  house,  the  suspected 
man  being  so  and  so  (giving  a  minute  description  of  his 
friend),  and  adding  that  he  might  possibly  be  in  such  and 
such  a  train  that  stopped  at  Canterbury,  en  route  for 
London,  and  if  so,  would  they  return  him  to  Waldershare 
for  identification. 

The  same  evening  the  police  arrived  at  Waldershare, 
bringing  with  them  the  departed  guest.  Whereupon 
Guilford,  assuming  great  rage,  turns  on  the  sergeant  and 
says  :  "  What  the  devil  do  you  mean  by  bringing  here  one 
of  my  oldest  friends,  a  man  of  great  position  and  honour  ? 
I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing — it  is  a  disgrace  !  "  So 
Guilford  was  right,  his  friend  was  at  the  races  after  all. 
History,  however,  is  silent  as  to  what  the  guest  said  and  the 
language  used  by  the  alleged  lady  who  awaited  him. 

On  Guilford's  tragic  death  his  only  sister,  Lady  Flora, 
who  was  also  a  wonderful  rider  to  hounds,  said  to  me, 
"  We  all  are  wearing  black  for  poor  Gil,  and  you  must  wear 
a  little  of  it  too.  I  have  knitted  you  these,"  and  she  gave 
me  a  beautiful  pair  of  silk  wristlets,  knitted  in  stripes  of 

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Concerning  Sports  and  Sporting 

black  and  old  gold.  Would  you  believe  it,  the  first  time  I 
wore  them  was  for  her  dear  self,  for  she  died  suddenly  but 
little  time  after,  as  I  shall  tell  in  another  chapter. 

Speaking  of  wagers,  I  don't  think  I  know  of  a  more 
extraordinary  bet  than  one  I  had  concerning  a  rabbit. 
I  was  sitting  one  day  in  the  library  at  Castle  Howard,  when 
a  rabbit  at  a  considerable  distance  from  us  aggravated  me. 
I  accordingly  sent  for  my  rook  rifle.  Several  men  present 
advised  me  not  to  waste  a  cartridge  as  the  distance  was 
too  great,  and  one  and  another  said  :  "  I  bet  you  what  you 
like  you  don't  hit  it."  I  replied,  "  If  you  give  me  decent 
odds,  I'll  back  myself  to  do  for  him."  Now  the  wonder  is 
that  I  replied  in  those  words.  It  is  extraordinary,  as  I  had 
not  the  slightest  premonition  of  what  afterwards  happened. 
Two  bets  were  taken  at  five  to  one  in  quids  that  I  did  not 
kill  the  rabbit.  The  rifle  arrived  and  I  made  my  shot  from 
the  window-sill  and  the  rabbit  dropped,  and  a  couple  of 
minutes  afterwards  you  could  have  seen  four  men  tearing 
down  the  slope  to  interview  the  remains.  Now  a  strange 
thing  happened  :  looking  at  the  mortal  remains  we  could 
discover  nowhere  sign  of  shot  or  shell.  But  near  where 
the  nose  was,  some  two  inches  towards  the  Castle,  there 
was  a  puncture  in  the  ground  as  from  a  bullet,  and  we  all 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  unless  the  cook  found  evidence 
of  lead  when  skinning  the  animal,  the  flint  must  have  been 
struck  up  by  the  bullet  and  catching  the  nose  killed  the 
vermin.  Now  does  not  this  show  you  how  careful  you  should 
be  with  words.  If  I  had  backed  myself  to  shoot  the  rabbit 
I  should  have  lost  my  bet,  but  I  was  richer  by  fifteen 
thickuns  as  most  assuredly  without  question  I  had  done  for 
the  rabbit,  and  the  beast  was  killed  sure  enough.  I  may  add 
that  the  nose  is  one  of  the  rabbit's  most  vulnerable  parts, 
and  in  my  boyhood  I  have  killed  with  an  ordinary  catapult. 

161  ii 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

Let  me  tell  you  another  rabbit  story.  It  lights  and 
warms  me  whenever  I  am  dull  and  dismal.  It  happened 
years  ago,  and  yet  to  this  day  I  can  hardly  think  of  it  without 
laughter.  I  was  a  guest  at  that  beautiful  estate,  Islandmoor, 
and  the  day  after  my  arrival  I  asked  my  host  whether  I 
might  take  my  gun  out  with  me  on  chance  of  a  stray  rabbit. 
"  You  can  take  your  gun  and  mine  too,  and  as  many  guns 
as  you  like,  and  welcome,  but  you  won't  find  a  rabbit  in  the 
place  !  "  "  Lord  !  "  I  gasped,  "  you  don't  tell  me  that ! 
Why  the  place  used  to  swarm  with  them  !  "  "  Ah,  since 
you  were  here  I've  got  a  Scotch  steward,  and  things  are 
very  different  now,  I  can  tell  you  :  McTaggart  prides 
himself  that  he's  not  left  a  rabbit  on  the  estate."  "  Dear 
me,"  I  returned,  "  he  must  be  a  good  man,  but,  if  you  don't 
mind,  I'll  take  my  gun,  for  I  feel  sort  of  lonesome  without 
it.  I  can't  bear  walking  about  the  covert-side  without  a 
gun,  unless  "  (I  added)  "  you  supply  me  with  some  beautiful 
vision  to  comfort  me."  "  I've  got  none  of  those  here  handy, 
thank  God  !  "  he  laughed,  "  so  you'd  better  take  your  gun, 
but,  mind  me,  you'll  have  no  sport." 

Shortly  after  luncheon  I  was  to  be  seen  going  through  the 
haggard.  I  chanced  upon  my  host  and  the  steward.  The 
man,  after  the  manner  of  most  successful  Scotch  stewards, 
turned  rather  over-brusquely  and  said  :  "  What's  that  ?  " 
pointing  to  my  gun.  I  was  kind  enough  to  tell  him,  where- 
upon he  opened  upon  me  in  the  most  vehement  manner. 
Said  I  might  as  well  go  to  the  house  and  leave  it  there,  and 
seemed  quite  annoyed  if  not  insulted  at  the  idea  of  going 
to  look  for  rabbits  in  any  place  that  he  managed.  I  laughed 
and  told  him  that  I'd  still  keep  the  gun  as  I  liked  having  it 
with  me,  and  passed  on.  Not  so  very  far  distant  I  came 
upon  a  little  public  roadway  which  bisected  the  estate. 
In  this  lane  to  my  unspeakable  joy  I  discovered  a  sort  of 

162 


Concerning  Sports  and  Sporting 

pedlar  man  with  a  donkey  cart,  and  in  the  donkey  cart  a 
number  of  freshly-killed  rabbits.  It  was  not  five  minutes 
before  I  had  purchased  seven.  I  then  went  into  the  coverts 
and  fired  seven  shots,  and  thereupon  returned  to  the  haggard. 
Not  attempting  to  stop  to  speak  to  McTaggart,  but  proceed- 
ing with  my  seven  rabbits,  I  chillingly  said  to  the  man  : 
"  Don't  tell  me  that  there  are  no  rabbits  at  Islandmoor." 
McTaggart  was  nearly  beside  himself  with  fury,  and  to 
this  day,  unless  he  belongs  to  a  lending  library,  he  probably 
supposes  that  I  did  shoot  them.  But  it  is  really  a  drama 
which  you  should  have  seen  and  acted  to  realize  the  joy 
it  gave  me.  I  never  professed  to  be  a  good  shot,  though 
I  may  say  that  in  both  senses  I  succeeded  in  bagging  those 
seven  rabbits.  I  do  occasionally  grass  a  good  bird,  but  that 
is  by  a  species  of  poetic  inspiration.  That  is  the  only  way 
I  can  account  for  it. 

A  year  or  two  ago  my  son  Vivian,  then  aged  thirteen, 
certainly  had  an  inspiration  in  a  shot  he  made.  One 
morning  at  Denham  Mere  we  were  appalled  to  find  that  a 
dear  guinea-fowl,  who  loved  seclusion  and  was  within  very 
measurable  distance  of  hatching  out  a  nest  of  fifteen  eggs 
secreted  by  her  away  down  beyond  the  little  lake,  had 
been  ruthlessly  slain,  and  her  eggs  trundled  into  the  ditch. 
A  stoat  was  suspected.  The  boy  reconnoitred,  but  could 
find  nothing  except  a  number  of  empty  shells.  He  there- 
upon disappeared  within  the  brambles  and  waited.  After 
about  half  an  hour  he  heard  a  light  step.  The  sound 
almost  inaudibly  approached.  Then  he  saw  a  bramble 
slightly  move,  and,  considering  it  good  enough,  fired.  In 
about  five  minutes  he  burst  into  the  smoking-room  with 
a  face  more  like  Heaven  than  it  is  ever  likely  to  be  again, 
bearing  in  his  hand  an  almost  decapitated  stoat.  So  you 
see  there  may  be  inspiration  in  sport  as  well  as  in  art. 

163  ii* 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

No  one  who  has  ever  seen  Lord  Ripon  shoot  in  his  de 
Grey  days  can  ever  forget  the  wonder  of  his  kills.  He  has 
the  reputation  of  being  the  most  marvellous  shot  of  his 
time,  although  George  Hunt,  a  son  of  Ward  Hunt,  a  member 
of  Mr.  Gladstone's  Cabinet,  ran  him  close,  and  was  said 
to  be  the  only  man  of  whom  Lord  de  Grey  was  apprehensive 
as  a  rival.  Another  son  of  the  late  Chancellor  of  the 
Exchequer  does  him  credit — Admiral  Tom  Hunt,  who  did 
good  service  in  the  Boer  War  by  annexing  a  large  quantity 
of  gold  which  Kruger  was  sending  surreptitiously  out 
of  the  country  wherewith  to  warm  his  old  age  elsewhere. 

To  return  to  my  reminiscences  on  the  subject  of  wagers, 
let  me  mention  a  curious  incident.  Racing  wagers  are  a 
species  of  entertainment  I  have  largely  left  alone  since  I 
left  Christ  Church ;  but  the  few  bets  I  have  made  in  later 
years  have  stories  connected  with  them.  Here  is  rather 
a  strange  one. 

One  day  I  was  walking  along  the  Front  at  Brighton.  I 
had  with  me  a  little  gem  of  a  Pomeranian,  quite  a  young 
*un.  Many  noticed  the  pup,  and  amongst  others  a  curious 
looking  individual  who  was  accompanied  by  an  infinitely 
more  curious  looking  lady  and  a  terror  that  looked  like  a 
bookie.  To  my  consternation  they  came  up  to  me,  the 
curious  looking  man  saying  :  "  You  are  a  friend  of  my 
father's ;  may  I  introduce  myself  ?  "  He  then  mentioned 
the  name  of  a  well-known  peer  who  indeed  had  been  a 
very  dear  friend  for  a  matter  of  more  years  than  I  care  to 
recollect.  This  friend  had  often  told  me  of  the  trouble  his 
son  was  to  him,  and  the  terrible  grief  for  the  family  that  the 
said  son  should  be  also  his  heir.  (Not  long  after  the  son 
duly  succeeded  to  his  father's  peerage.)  You  can  imagine 
therefore  that  this  rencontre  was  not  one  that  I  considered 
desirable.  It  seemed  that  the  curious-looking  lady  had 

164 


THE    ASSASSINATOR    OF    THE    STOAT. 

VIVIAN    DENHAM 
Aged  two, 

From  a  photograph  by  his  father,  the  Author  of  this  Volume. 


[To  face  page  164. 


Concerning  Sports  and  Sporting 

fallen  in  love  with  the  dog  (not  the  first  stray  dog  she 
had  fallen  in  love  with  by  the  look  of  her)  and  her  com- 
panion wished  to  purchase  it.  I  did  not  want  to  part  with 
it,  but  remembering  that  there  were  four  other  puppies 
about  the  same  age  at  home  and  that  the  cook  was  be- 
coming slightly  cantankerous,  I  agreed  to  a  deal.  During 
the  afternoon  the  man  came  up  to  my  place  and  gave  me 
a  cheque  for  ten  guineas  and  took  the  dog.  On  the  cheque 
being  presented  my  bankers  informed  me  that  according  to 
accounts  received  by  them  the  drawer  of  the  cheque  pre- 
sented had  not  had  an  account  at  that  bank  for  fourteen 
years.  I  therefore  had  to  deplore  the  loss  of  the  dog 
and  the  money,  and  be  it  said  neither  were  ever  recovered. 
Some  three  weeks  afterwards  I  was  proceeding  to  London 
with  one  of  the  most  orthodox  and  proper  of  men,  Sir 
Frederick  Saunders,  and  in  company  with  him  was  passing 
through  the  station  at  Victoria,  when  to  my  horror,  and 
palpably  to  Sir  Frederick's,  the  terror  of  a  bookie  rushes 
up  to  me,  mentions  my  name  and  desires  a  few  moments 
of  confidential  conversation.  You  could  have  knocked 
Saunders  down  with  a  feather,  and  he  scooted.  I  walked 
off  with  the  man  wondering  what  Sir  Frederick  would  think 
of  it.  The  terror  turned  out  to  be  the  dreadful  person  that 
was  with  the  woman  and  the  purloiner  of  my  dog  that  day 
on  the  Front.  When  he  had  drawn  me  apart  he  said  : 
"  See  here,  Sir,  you  were  dreadful  done  over  that  dawg 
and  I  want  to  make  it  all  square  for  you.  The  City  and 
Suburban,  as  you  know,  is  being  run  to-day  :  now,  Sir, 
you  go  and  back  So-and-so  and  you'll  get  your  money 
you've  been  robbed  of.  The  horse  is  a  cert."  I  said  : 
"  Do  you  know  that  if  I'd  backed  every  cert  recommended 
to  me,  I  should  now  be  in  the  poorhouse  ?  "  He  rejoined, 
and  indeed  spoke  very  earnestly  and  appeared  as  honest 

165 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

as  a  man  like  that  could  look,  "  I  tell  you,  Sir,  that  this  is 
a  cert,  and  all  I  want  is  to  see  you  righted."  I  thanked  the 
man  for  his  evident  kind  intention  and  left  him  with  all 
possible  speed. 

Walking  across  St.  James's  Park,  I  turned  the  matter  over 
in  my  mind.  The  man  spoke  quite  honestly  and  did  not 
seem  to  have  anything  to  gain  in  the  matter.  He  had  not 
given  me  his  address,  nor  made  any  request  that  I  should 
communicate  with  him  if  I  won.  Moreover  he  was  no 
longer  in  Brighton  ;  and  altogether  I  thought  it  would 
be  well  to  mention  the  matter  to  Hewitt.  Hewitt  was 
the  invaluable  hall-porter  at  White's  Club,  and  during  my 
thirty-five  years'  membership  of  that  venerable  institution 
his  sagacity  had  on  many  occasions  been  useful.  Neverthe- 
less this  was  the  first  betting  transaction  I  had  ever  essayed 
at  White's,  for,  needless  to  say,  it  is  only  fools  who  go  in  for 
racing  on  half  knowledge,  and  full  knowledge  is  all  but  a 
profession  in  itself.  Hewitt  informed  me  that  the  horse  was 
a  good  one,  that  it  was  quoted  at  eleven  to  one,  and  that 
he  thought  from  the  man's  disinterestedness  that  there  was 
a  good  sporting  chance.  Accordingly  I  put  a  sovereign 
on,  which  if  I  won  would  pay  for  the  dog  and  leave  me  a 
residue.  Subsequently  I  proceeded  to  a  luncheon  party 
and  afterwards  to  a  lawyer's  in  Lincoln's  Inn.  When  all 
this  was  over  and  my  mind  completely  charged  with 
luncheon  and  law  to  complete  forgetfulness  of  the  City 
and  Suburban  and  my  interests  therein,  I  was  all  but 
upset  in  the  Strand  by  an  absolute  avalanche  of  newspaper 
urchins  yelling  out  "  Winners !  winners !  "  I  then  re- 
membered my  bet  and  annexed  a  paper,  where  I  saw  that 
I  had  won.  I  had  been  on  my  way  to  the  House  to  hear 
a  debate,  but  this  win  changed  everything  and  I  thought  I 
would  go  up  to  White's  and  garner  my  gold.  On  arriving 

166 


Concerning  Sports  and  Sporting 

at  the  Club  you  can  imagine  my  feelings  when  Hewitt 
announced  that  all  the  field  had  passed  the  wrong  side  of 
some  post  and  that  the  race  had  to  be  run  again.  I  naturally 
wished  I'd  never  been  born,  and  thought  to  myself  that 
racing  was  the  ruin  of  England.  Previously  I  had  on  my 
way  up  contemplated  the  possibility  of  starting  a  stable. 
I  was  slightly  comforted,  however,  when  Hewitt  assured 
me  that  the  stewards  had  decided  that  the  race  was  to  be 
re-run  at  the  previous  starting  prices.  As  he  was  telling 
me  this,  adding  that  he  had  small  hopes  that,  taking  into 
consideration  the  strain  already  put  on  the  horse,  it  was 
unlikely  he  could  again  show  such  good  form  and  repeat 
his  victory.  As  he  was  saying  this,  the  welcome  news  came 
through  the  tape  that  for  a  second  time  the  horse  had  won. 
Some  days  later  I  told  this  story  to  Sir  Frederick.  I  wonder 
if  he  believed  me  ! 

It  is  a  most  noteworthy  thing  what  numbers  of  men  are 
veritable  prophets  in  the  case  of  others,  but  the  moment 
they  put  money  on  for  themselves  they  cease  to  be  seers. 
Lord  Carnwath,  who  possesses  one  of  the  oldest  of  the 
Scotch  Earldoms,  is  somewhat  of  a  sufferer  in  this  respect. 
There  is  a  saying  that  he  actually  gave  twenty-one  winners 
to  his  friends  without  having  himself  a  look-in.  He  would 
probably  maintain  that  the  results  would  have  been  quite 
otherwise  had  he  done  so,  which  is  a  pity,  as  he  deserves 
good  luck. 

I  will  not  burden  these  pages  with  reference  to  the  bets 
made  by  myself  and  others  regarding  the  Oxford  Newdi- 
gate  Prize  Poem,  a  series  of  wagers  initiated  at  long  odds 
by  the  present  Lord  Newton,  who  was  a  veritable  atheist 
as  regards  my  chances.  I  would  rather  tell  you  of  a  matter 
concerning  Lord  Cunyngham  and  other  members  of  White's. 
Before  recounting  these  particular  wagers  I  should  like  to 

167 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

mention  how  I  first  met  Cunyngham,  and  what  came 
of  it. 

I  first  met  him  at  Cadiz  when  he  was  Lord  Mount 
Charles,  familiarly  known  as  Monte  Carlo.  He  and 
Probyn,  a  friend  of  his,  were  in  the  Rifles,  and  came  over 
from  Gibraltar,  where  they  were  stationed,  for  a  week  at 
that  seductive  Andalusian  town,  where  at  the  time  I  was 
staying.  He  soon  made  himself  very  popular  in  the  place, 
initiated  by  the  exhibition  which  he  and  I  gave  as  to  how  the 
English  waltz  was  danced — this  being  at  the  invitation  of 
a  very  beautiful  Spanish  hostess  at  an  equally  beautiful 
dance  she  gave. 

There  was  not  an  English  lady,  be  it  said,  in  the  whole 
town  to  help  us ;  so  at  the  hostess's  earnest  entreaty  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  that  we  should  show  them  the  steps. 

But  the  minds  of  Mount  Charles  and  Probyn  were  less 
interested  in  balls  than  in  baccarat,  and  against  my  en- 
treaties they  insisted  on  attending  functions  of  the  sort 
held  every  night  in  some  different  locality.  The  particular 
night  I  record  the  play  was,  if  you  please,  in  the  house  of  a 
priest,  and  you  had  to  give  no  less  than  three  countersigns 
before  you  could  be  admitted.  They  made  me  accompany 
them,  though  I  plainly  told  them  that  from  what  I  had 
heard  of  these  dens,  nothing  would  tempt  me  to  play. 
It  was  not  long  before  they  were  thoroughly  cleaned  out, 
their  losses  topping  a  hundred  pounds.  Financially  they 
were  stranded,  and  that  in  a  strange  country  and  without 
friends.  In  their  need  I  took  them  to  my  banker,  and  had 
actually  succeeded  in  getting  j£ioo  for  Mount  Charles 
when  this  untoward  thing  happened.  The  notes  were 
already  on  the  counter  and  Mount  Charles  was  asked  as 
a  finale  to  the  transaction  to  affix  his  name  in  a  big  book. 
He  did  so,  with  the  simple  word  Mount  Charles,  with 

168 


Concerning  Sports  and  Sporting 

White's  Club,  St.  James's  Street,  London,  as  an  address. 
The  name  looked  very  naked  I  allow,  but  nothing  like  as 
nude  as  it  did  to  the  banker.  Rather  crossly  he  asked 
Mount  Charles  to  add  more.  "  Oh,"  said  Mount  Charles, 
"  if  you  want  the  whole  bally  basket  of  tricks,  here  it  is," 
and  he  wrote  Earl  of  Mount  Charles.  Whereupon  the 
banker  made  a  wild  swoop  to  the  counter  and  in  a  jiffy 
collected  the  notes,  thrust  them  into  the  safe,  which  he 
shut  with  a  reverberating  bang,  as  he  said  :  "  Lords  indeed, 
I'll  have  none  of  them  here,  I  know  that  sort  too  well," 
and  not  a  stiver  would  he  give  Mount  Charles.  As  I  had 
a  letter  of  credit  to  the  banker,  I  succeeded  in  getting  a 
hundred  from  him,  which  I  handed  my  friend,  and  the 
curious  part  about  the  story  is  that  he  lived  to  so  amply 
and  so  generously  repay  me. 

Some  time  later  I  was  myself  at  Gibraltar,  and  shall 
never  forget  my  messes  at  the  Rifle  Brigade,  and  the  wild 
hilarious  times  we  had.  I  then  left  for  a  spell  in  Tangier 
and  thereabout,  and  grew  so  enamoured  of  things  buyable 
there  that  I  was  a  frequent  purchaser.  This  seriously 
depleted  me.  One  beautiful  purchase  I  made  I  simply 
must  record,  as  it  has  ever  since  been  a  joy  to  me.  I  must 
admit  that  I  frequently  visited  the  opium  dens,  where  you 
sat  on  the  floor  on  sacks  not  over  wholesome,  and  smoked 
from  the  most  diminutive  pipes  I  have  ever  seen.  The 
effect  I  may  say  was  heaven.  In  parenthesis  let  me  say  that 
on  mid-seas  between  Tangier  and  Gibraltar  I  cast  away 
into  the  waters  a  large  stock  of  pipes  and  opium  which  I 
had  brought  with  me  from  Morocco,  so  fearsome  was  I, 
despite  the  temporary  heaven,  of  the  fate  of  De  Quincey. 
But,  to  retrace.  One  night  as  I  sat  in  the  opium  den,  a 
little  bit  of  the  terrible  bundle  on  which  I  sat  moved  and  slid 
down.  It  was  a  dirty,  dusty  and  deplorable  bundle,  but 

169 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

something  tempted  me  to  peel  it  further,  and  then  I  dis- 
covered, scarcely  seeable  through  the  grime,  some  beautiful 
and  seemingly  ancient  tapestry.  I  speedily  replaced  the  por- 
tions I  had  opened  and  simulated  an  unconcern  I  did  not 
feel.  Later  on  I  asked  the  proprietor  what  he  would  take 
for  the  old  bundle.  Of  course  he  thought  I  was  mad, 
but  for  once  I  wasn't.  I've  had  that  bundle  as  a  'portiere 
for  years,  and  it  is  only  imbeciles  who  have  not  envied  me 
the  possession. 

But,  to  return  to  his  lordship  at  the  Rock.  I  arrived 
at  Gibraltar,  as  rocky  as  its  name  and,  shall  I  say,  as  stony. 
Mount  Charles  gave  me  all  I  wanted,  so  you  see  that  even  in 
this  world  one  sometimes  reaps  one's  deserts.  Now  you 
know  how  first  I  met  Lord  Cunyngham  as  afterwards  he 
became. 

One  night  at  White's,  led  on  by  Cunyngham,  a  number 
of  members  were  chaffing  me  about  what  he  called  the 
damned  rot  I  wrote.  "  What  is  the  bally  use,"  he  said, 
"  of  poetry  ?  Nobody  understands  it  and  nobody  wants 
it.  And  what  the  dickens  is  the  use  of  going  out  of  your 
way  in  a  pile  of  words,  which  no  one  has  ever  heard  of, 
to  say  a  thing  which  a  sensible  man  would  have  done  with 
in  a  sentence  ? "  And  so  they  all  went  on,  and  we  were 
having  a  good  old  ragging  time  when  Cunyngham  leaned 
over  and  said  :  "  Now  why  the  devil  can't  you  write 
something  useful  ?  Something,  for  example,  that  we 
want  to  know  and  would  be  wiser  to  know.  I  bet  you 
what  you  like  that  you  couldn't  do  anything  in  the  way  of 
statistics  or  general  knowledge  !  "  Mind  you,  this  was  all 
pure  chaff.  I  retorted :  "  Give  me  long  odds  and  I'll  try 
it."  I  entered  down  a  considerable  number  of  bets  at 
very  long  odds  that  I  would  not  write  a  book  that  should 
be  entirely  informative  and  statistical,  and  written  to  supply 

170 


Concerning  Sports  and  Sporting 

a  want  actually  experienced.  When  all  was  apparently 
settled,  Cunyngham,  who  had  a  strong  vein  of  Irish  humour, 
produced  a  roar  of  laughter  by  saying  :  "  The  poet  will 
write  this  bally  work,  but  what  knowledge  have  we  that 
he'll  find  any  one  that's  bally  fool  enough  to  read  it  ? " 
When  the  laughter  had  subsided  I  turned  on  Cunyngham, 
and  said  :  "  Well,  though  the  bets  are  booked,  I'll  meet 
you,  and  we'll  add  that  the  bally  thing  must  go  into  a 
second  edition  within  a  year."  The  bet  stood  at  that. 

The  cycling  craze  was  then  in  full  fashion  and  the 
motoring  industry  was  on  the  quick  move  forward  :  there 
was  much  need  for  an  accurate  and  economical  road  book. 
This  night  at  White's  saw  the  birth  of  my  "  Roadways  of 
London,"  a  little  red  book  with  maps  which  subsequently 
I  was  sick  of  seeing  on  the  stalls.  It  went  into  a  second 
edition  in  ten  days  :  it  was  sold  for  a  shilling,  and  I  made 
several- times  four  figures  by  its  sale,  and  the  bets  paid 
for  printing  and  publication.  I  was  wise  enough  to  keep 
the  copyright  in  my  own  hands,  whereby  every  single  one 
of  many  pages  of  advertisements  wandered  my  way  instead 
of  adrift.  It  is  a  most  extraordinary  thing  and  somewhat 
tear-shedding  that  from  the  moment  you  cease  to  write 
literature  you  begin  to  get  prosperous  and  are  considered 
brainy  by  your  relations. 


171 


XIII 

BEYOND   THE    FOOTLIGHTS 

The  Fall  of  the  Curtain.  The  Garish  Lights.  The  Jerking  Back  into  Unwelcome 
Reality.  Tree  as  a  Personality.  Wit — the  Offspring  of  Intellect :  whilst  often 
Humour  is  the  Bastard  of  Ignorance.  Boots  by  Telegraph  to  New  York. 
"  The  Laste  Taste  of  yer  Dhrawers  benathe  yer  Trousers."  Tree's  Language 
of  the  Foot — a  Veritable  Footlight.  Moral  Courage  the  Divinity  of  the  Brain. 
Depreciation  of  Poetry.  Wyndham's  Appreciation  of  Poetry.  A  Criminal 
Wishful  for  a  Better  Life.  Mrs.  Stannard  and  the  Crinoline.  "  Women  should 
not  make  more  of  themselves  than  God  intended."  Irving's  Victory  over 
his  Voice.  Others  have  possessed  the  Public  Eye,  Irving  Filled  it.  Irving  by 
the  Bath-Chair  of  Toole.  Toole's  Bishop  who  could  not  get  into  Heaven. 
Greatness  is  more  Rare  in  the  Wearing  of  the  Laurel  than  in  the  Earning  of  it. 

HAVE  you  ever  experienced  that  plethora  of  vacuum 
that  comes  upon  one  when  some  familiar  figure  who 
has  filled  your  eyes  and  enthralled  your  being  is  suddenly 
severed  from  you  by  the  fall  of  the  curtain  ?  The  world 
of  dream  has  gone  and  the  garish,  vulgar  lights  are  upturned 
on  the  house.  We  are  jerked  back  into  unwelcome  reality. 

If  we  feel  this  at  the  curtain's  ordinary  fall,  what  must 
it  be  when  that  curtain  is  death  ?  The  curtain  has 
fallen  on  many  a  dear  familiar  name  of  the  past.  Years 
ago  we  could  not  imagine  London  without  its  Irving,  its 
Herbert  Tree,  its  Charles  Wyndham,  and  dear  little  Johnny 
Toole.  Alas,  that  they  are  all  gone  beyond  the  footlights ! 

It  is  with  a  sad  heart  that  I  place  on  record  my  own 
remembrances  of  them.  But  it  is  all  the  same  a  heart  full 
of  joy  and  gratitude  that  my  life  was  lived  with  theirs 

172 


Beyond  the  Footlights 

and  that  thus  I  was  accorded  opportunity  for  receiving 
of  the  gifts  it  was  theirs  to  give.  No  soul  could  be  alto- 
gether empty  that  was  illumined  by  these  men.  Each 
had  his  individual  sphere  and  his  own  separate  field  of 
intellect.  The  world  was  richer  for  them  and  it  is  in 
gratitude  I  write. 

Tree  was  a  commanding  personality.  He  was  not  a 
great  man,  but  near  it.  He  stood  upon  the  threshold  and 
had  some  of  the  light  from  the  Halls  beyond.  He  was 
indeed  a  big  personality,  for  he  was  as  engrossing  with 
an  audience  of  one  (if  he  liked  you)  as  he  could  easily 
be  with  a  houseful.  That  is  large  praise. 

Tree  was  at  times  very  witty,  and,  when  in  the  mood, 
extraordinarily  good  company.  But  a  great  number  of  his 
witticisms  and  epigrams  cannot  stand  being  looked  into. 
Contrast  these  with  similar  things  from  Sheridan,  and 
you  are  conscious  of  the  difference.  Fox  and  Grenville, 
walking  down  Bond  Street,  meet  Sheridan,  to  whom  Fox 
says :  "  Hey,  Sherry,  we  were  just  talking  of  you,  wondering 
whether  you  are  most  knave  or  fool."  Sheridan  takes  an 
arm  of  each  and  says :  "  Well,  do  you  know,  I'm  a  little 
betwixt  the  two." 

You  can  turn  this  upside  down  or  inside  out  and  it 
remains  perfect.  But  do  the  same  with  the  following  from 
Tree  and  you  will  note  the  difference.  "  Humour  is  the 
love-child  of  Intellect."  Now  if  there  is  one  thing  more 
certain  on  earth  than  another  it  is  that  wit  is  of  necessity 
the  offspring  of  intellect,  whereas  humour  may  be  the 
bastard  of  ignorance.  The  most  killingly  humorous  things 
I  have  ever  heard  have  been  sayings,  the  humour  of  which 
was  consequent  upon  the  ignorance  of  the  speaker. 

In  a  wild  part  of  Kerry,  right  away  amongst  uninhabited 
hills,  they  were  constructing  a  long  line  of  telegraph  posts 

173 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

and  appending  the  wires.  A  portion  of  these  posts  abutted 
on  the  cabin  of  a  man  who  was  a  woodcutter  and  cobbler. 
He  comes  up  to  the  foreman  and  says  :  "  An'  now,  would 
yer  tell  me  what  all  them  naked  trees  are  that  ye  are 
planting  ?  "  "  Oh,"  responded  the  foreman,  "  they  are 
to  hold  these  wires  and  through  the  wires  yer  can  speak 
wid  America  and  get  an  answer  whilst  yer  wait."  "  Be- 
gorrah  !  that's  fine,"  said  the  cobbler,  "  and  d'ye  say  that 
they'll  take  parcels  ?  "  "  Faith  !  it's  me  opinion  there's 
nothing  they  can't  do,"  was  the  reply.  The  next  day  the 
cobbler  comes  to  the  foreman  and  says :  "  Bedad,  them 
wires  is  the  most  extraordinary  invintion,  and  a  grand 
savin'  of  ixpinse  in  packin'.  See  here  now,  I  made  my 
son  Michael,  who  is  in  New  York,  a  grand  pair  of  new 
boots,  and  last  night  I  got  a  bit  of  a  ladder  and  hitched 
them  on  to  the  wires,  and  would  yer  believe  me,  when  I 
came  out  this  morning,  there  was  Mike's  old  boots  that 
he  had  sent  me  back  !  " 

Here  is  another  instance  of  humour  originated  not  by 
intellect  but  by  ignorance.  Going  down  to  Buckingham- 
shire for  a  garden  party  in  the  middle  of  a  London  season, 
we  went  down  in  London  dress.  I  had  white  spats  on. 
During  the  afternoon  my  host  asked  a  number  of  us  to  come 
and  see  the  young  pheasants,  telling  us  that  he  had  a  very 
good  Irish  gamekeeper.  We  had  hardly  appeared  in  the 
preserves  when  the  keeper  much  excited  came  rushing  up 
to  me. 

"  Excuse  me,  sorr  ;  come  this  way,  come  on,  sorr,  quickly 
this  way :  get  into  the  bushes  where  the  ladies  can't  see 
yer."  He  was  dreadfully  agitated,  and  for  fear  he  should 
have  a  fit  I  followed  him  into  the  laurels.  Leaning 
towards  me  and  whispering  :  "I  would  not  for  the  life 
of  me  the  ladies  saw  yer,  for  yer've  got  the  laste  taste  of 

174 


Beyond  the  Footlights 

yer  dhrawers  showin'  benathe  yer  trousers."      How  the 
women  laughed  when  I  told  them  this ! 

Tree  was  very  whimsical.  One  week-end  he  came 
down  to  the  "  Metropole  "  at  Brighton,  at  which  hotel  I 
happened  to  be  staying.  On  Sunday  night  we  sat  up  till 
all  hours  and  he  was  most  amusing.  The  talk  turned  on 
palmistry,  and  Tree,  who  would  usually  take  some  un- 
expected turn  or  twist  opposite  to  everyone  else,  asserted 
that  there  was  much  more  character  in  the  foot  than  in  the 
hand,  and  that,  in  fact,  the  foot  speaks  in  a  way  that  no 
hand  does.  Tree  left  Brighton,  knowing  that  I  would  not 
be  in  London  for  some  time,  but  on  the  Monday,  after 
Sir  Herbert's  departure,  I  got  a  wire  from  Lady  Seymour 
saying  that  she  had  been  given  the  Royal  Box  at  His 
Majesty's,  and  would  I  come  up  and  see  the  play.  I  wired 
grateful  acceptance.  Now,  mark  you,  I  was  the  last  man 
Tree  expected  to  see  in  the  theatre.  At  a  very  solemn 
part  of  the  performance,  when  Tree  had  half  fallen  across 
a  chair  in  an  agony  of  grief,  he  looks  up  sideways  at  the 
Royal  Box,  raises  his  hand  to  his  mouth  as  if  lifting  a  tumbler, 
and  gives  a  jerk  or  two  of  his  leg  round  towards  the  Green 
Room.  From  this  I  gathered  that  if  at  the  next  entr'acte 
I  went  round  behind  the  footlights,  I'd  find  a  whisky  and 
soda.  I  accordingly  went  to  Tree's  room,  and  he  said  : 
"  Now,  didn't  I  tell  you  that  there's  much  more  language 
in  the  foot  than  in  the  hand  ?  " 

Tree  was  a  man  of  infinite  resource  and  very  considerable 
ability,  and  what  especially  endeared  him  to  me  was  his 
indomitable  courage.  How  many  careers  have  been  lost 
through  want  of  it  ?  Moral  courage  is  the  divinity  of  the 
brain.  But  in  many  things  Tree  was  most  appallingly 
deficient,  and,  unless  he  took  to  it,  most  difficult  to  teach. 
Could  anything  be  worse  than  Tree's  delivery  of  blank 

175 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

verse  ?  I  don't  say  that  there  exist  many  who  can  do 
much  better.  It  is  surprising  how  many  educated  people 
there  are  who  have  not  the  faintest  conception  of  how 
poetry  should  be  delivered.  They  mostly  make  a  singsong 
of  it  till  you  feel  like  being  aboard  a  fishing  smack  in  a 
storm.  And  that  feeling  of  mat  de  mer,  engendered  by  some 
evil  parson  at  a  penny  reading,  is  (I  am  convinced  of  it)  at 
the  root  of  the  prevalent  apprehension  of  poetry.  Sir 
Charles  Wyndham  had  this  feeling  to  such  an  extraordinary 
extent  that  he  turned  on  me  one  day  with  the  query  : 
"  What  in  the  name  of  Heaven  is  the  use  of  poetry  ?  When 
I  want  to  go  to  the  station,  do  I  ask  the  policeman  in 
rhyme  ?  "  I  retorted  :  "  My  dear  friend,  if  you  wrote 
the  rhyme,  the  constable  would  take  you  in  charge."  This 
finished  that  conversation. 

But  to  return  to  Herbert  Tree.  At  his  request  I  was 
present  at  many  a  rehearsal.  When  it  was  prose  I  was 
comparatively  comfortable,  but  never  shall  I  forget  the 
agonies  of  Hypatia  !  I  believe  that  poor  Kingsley  would 
have  gone  mad,  and  there  would  have  been  an  earlier 
end  of  him.  But  perhaps  foreseeing  this  he  died  before  his 
time  ! 

The  dramatizing  of  prose  is  too  often  the  addition  of 
ditch  water  to  good  wine,  and  Christian  men  should  be 
careful  how  they  do  it ;  but  unfortunately  there  gets  daily 
less  of  Christianity  in  literature.  People  think  that  because 
lines  don't  rhyme  they  should  therefore  be  easy  to  write. 
On  the  contrary,  it  seems  to  me  debatable  whether  blank 
verse  is  not  almost  as  difficult  as  is  the  sonnet.  It  is  few 
even  amongst  poets  who  are  successful  in  either,  and,  few 
as  these  be,  those  who  can  adequately  read  them  are  even 
less.  Poor  Tree  was  specially  bad,  but  in  his  defence  I 
should  say  that  he  was  a  criminal  wishful  for  a  better  life. 

176 


Beyond  the  Footlights 

He  besought  me  to  give  him  lessons.  This  for  all  my  sins 
I  did,  but  I  had  to  stop  him  so  often  that  I  grew  weary  and 
he  grew  irate.  No  progress  was  reported.  Where  progress 
did  come  in  was  owing  to  a  very  happy  thought.  I  got 
his  secretary  to  type  the  blank  verse  as  if  it  were  prose,  and 
thus  made  Tree  proceed  with  the  sense  of  the  lines  rather 
than  stop  at  the  end  of  a  line,  as  doth  every  idiot,  whether 
there  is  a  comma  or  no.  Why  on  earth  should  people 
pause  at  the  end  of  lines  unless  there  is  a  comma,  colon 
or  stop  ?  That  is  a  question  which  can  only  be  answered 
in  Heaven. 

Tree  was  in  many  respects  an  autocrat,  and  his  modes 
of  showing  it  were  not  always  precious  to  his  company. 
He  would  permit  nobody  but  himself  to  adorn  the  centre 
of  the  stage.  On  one  occasion  The  Seats  of  the  Mighty  was 
being  rehearsed.  Through  the  negligence  of  the  actor- 
manager  the  centre,  momentarily  unoccupied,  was  seized 
by  Lewis  Waller,  who  jubilantly  exclaimed  in  an  aside  : 
"  Ha  !  I'm  here  at  last."  "  You  won't  be  there  long  ; 
you'll  be  shot  soon,"  retorted  Miss  Janet  Steer.  A  second 
or  so  later  Tree  turns  round  and,  seeing  him  there,  calls 
out,  as  indeed  was  in  the  play  :  "  Shoot  that  man."  This 
forthwith  happened,  and  Waller  was  carried  off  as  dead. 
"  A  brief  triumph,"  said  the  stately  Miss  Steer. 

I  saw  a  good  deal  of  Sir  Henry  Irving,  and  on  various 
occasions  had  supper  with  him  at  the  Garrick,  and  on  the 
stage  at  the  Lyceum.  I  can  remember  nothing  he  ever  said 
which  deserved  lasting  rank  in  epigram  or  repartee.  He 
could  hardly  fail  to  be  interesting  and  often  impressive 
in  what  he  said,  but  he  seemed  in  himself  to  exemplify 
what  he  once  said  to  me  that  the  life  practice  of  rendering 
other  people's  originalities  seems  to  sap  the  originality 
of  oneself.  He  added  :  "  Is  it  not  strange  that  if  I  wanted 

177  12 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

a  slight  alteration  made  in  a  line  or  the  slightest  addition 
to  it,  I  have  to  ask  someone  like  yourself  to  do  it  ?"  I 
told  Irving  that  what  might  be  said  to  be  the  converse 
was  also  true,  that  very  few  original  writers  on  any  large 
scale  had  good  memories  for  rendering  the  writings  of  others, 
and  explained  it  in  this  way,  that,  having  in  themselves 
the  power  of  composition,  they  were  prone  to  gag  or  im- 
provise, when  strictly  speaking  they  should  be  recollecting 
the  lines  they  set  out  to  remember.  Now,  the  man 
who  cannot  gag  or  improvise  is  not  beset  with  either  the 
temptation  or  the  power  to  do  so. 

Irving  was  keenly  alive  to  humour  and  satire,  and  I 
well  remember  his  enjoyment  of  a  passage  of  arms  between 
this  writer  and  Mrs.  Stannard.  It  was  after  supper  on  the 
Lyceum  stage  that,  as  I  was  talking  to  Irving,  Ellen  Terry 
came  up  to  me  and  said  :  "  Mrs.  Stannard  is  most  anxious 
to  make  your  acquaintance.  She  wants  you  to  use  your 
influence  to  revive  the  use  of  the  crinoline."  Mrs. 
Stannard  then  came  up  and  I  was  introduced  to  her,  and 
she  came  to  the  point  at  once,  saying  :  "  I  do  want  to  see 
every  woman  wearing  the  crinoline  ;  won't  you  help  me  ?  " 
To  which  I  said  :  "  I  am  very  sorry,  Mrs.  Stannard,  but 
I  do  not  think  that  women  should  make  more  of  themselves 
than  God  intended."  Mrs.  Stannard,  be  it  said,  was  the 
author  of  a  book  much  in  vogue  at  that  time  called  "  Bootless 
Baby,"  and  wrote  under  the  nom  de  plume  of  John  Strange 
Winter. 

One  thing  is  little  known  about  Irving  which  to  know 
and  realize  is  to  largely  augment  our  admiration  for  the 
man.  Demosthenes,  clambering  uphill,  with  pebbles  in 
his  mouth,  in  order  to  obviate  the  difficulties  of  oratory, 
is  no  less  an  instance  of  what  the  genius  of  determination 
will  effect  in  surmounting  a  physical  obstacle  than  was 

178 


Beyond  the  Footlights 

living's  spirited  victory  over  his  deformation  of  voice. 
Speaking  in  his  natural  tones  Irving's  voice  was  an  alto, 
thin,  unconvincing,  and  at  times  grotesque.  To  use  it  in 
deep-souled  tragedy  would  be  to  court  disaster,  and  of 
this  he  was  painfully  aware.  In  all  those  splendid  scenes 
which  we  have  seen,  wherein  tragedy  was  voiced,  and 
possessed  our  souls,  the  man  who  thus  controlled  us  was 
ever  remembering  to  keep  his  head  lowered  as  the  only 
method  whereby  he  could  deepen  his  tones.  Try  it  your- 
self and  you  will  see  what  a  different  timbre  is  in  your 
voice  according  to  the  angle  of  the  head.  When  you 
think  that  the  great  actor  had  this  of  which  to  think,  in 
addition  to  remembering  the  libretto,  and  possessing  his 
soul  for  the  output  and  display  of  those  words,  is  indeed 
to  largely  increase  our  wonder  and  love  for  this  indomitable 
man. 

My  impression  always  was,  and  in  memory  even  more 
so,  that  Irving  was  a  great  man,  the  only  great  man  I  have 
known  on  the  English  stage  ;  others  have  possessed  the 
public  eye,  Irving  filled  it.  There  was  something  noble  in 
his  nature,  and  all  he  did  he  did  greatly.  We  shall  not 
look  upon  his  like  again. 

It  was  a  picture  in  pathos  to  see  this  great  man  by  the 
bath-chair  of  his  life-long  friend  John  Lawrence  Toole. 
Sunday  after  Sunday  he  would  go  to  Brighton  to  walk 
by  that  friend,  long  after  that  friend's  failing  powers  had 
ability  to  recognize  him.  What  could  well  be  more  terrible 
or  more  fraught  with  the  tears  of  tragedy  !  Time  after 
time  I  witnessed  their  quips  at  the  Garrick.  They  were 
as  boys  together,  hitting  and  scoring  against  each  other 
without  an  iota  of  animus.  As  an  instance  of  their 
badinage,  this  writer  cannot  avoid  reproducing  a  story 
which  must  be  known  to  some  of  you,  but  really  should  be 

179  12* 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

known  to  all.  Irving  and  Toole  were  always  inventing 
stories  or  sayings  against  each  other,  but  this  of  Toole's 
must  surely  be  said  to  cap  the  series. 

One  day  Toole  came  down  to  the  Garrick  simulating 
great  weakness  and  lassitude.  Some  say  that  he  had  even 
powdered  his  face  to  obtain  a  corroborative  pallor.  Irving 
and  a  number  of  other  actors,  noticing  him,  said,  "  What's 
the  matter  with  you,  Johnny  ?  You  don't  seem  your- 
self !  "  "  Oh,  I've  had  an  awful  night,  I  dreamt  that 
I  was  dead  and  on  my  way  to  Heaven.  I  did  nothing  but 
walk  and  walk  along  that  straight  road.  And  there,  away 
in  the  distance,  were  the  Golden  Gates  in  front  of  me.  I  got 
up  to  them  at  last  and  made  a  good  knock,  when  up  gets 
St.  Peter  and  opens  to  me.  *  What  do  you  want  ?  '  says 
he.  '  Please,  Sir,'  says  I,  l  I  want  to  get  in.'  *  And  who 
may  you  be,  may  I  ask  ?  '  *  Oh,'  says  I,  drawing  myself 
up  a  bit,  *  I'm  Johnny  Toole,  the  actor,  of  Toole's  Theatre, 
London.'  *  Very  sorry,'  says  St.  Peter,  beginning  to  close 
the  gate,  '  but  we've  no  actors  in  Heaven.'  Whereupon 
he  double-locked  the  gate  and  left  me.  I  was  very  angry, 
but  thought,  well,  as  I  have  come  so  far  I  might  as  well 
sit  down  and  see  what  goes  on  ;  it  might  come  in  useful 
when  I  get  back  to  town.  I  sat  there  for  some  considerable 
time  and  many  people  of  all  sorts  passed  by.  And  some 
got  in  and  some  didn't.  I  quite  felt  for  the  poor  old 
Bishop  who  probably  had  a  wife  and  large  family,  who 
had  to  go  back  to  his  home  again,  and  I  wondered  what 
he'd  say  about  it  in  the  Diocese.  Then  to  my  amazement 
whom  should  I  see  walking  up  the  hill  but  dear  old  Henry 
Irving,  and  I  said  to  myself,  now  I'm  in  for  a  good  time, 
I'll  see  Henry  turned  off  !  I  stood  up  to  watch  the  thing. 
What  was  my  consternation  when  I  actually  saw  St.  Peter 
let  him  in.  It  was  not  long  before  I  rushed  up  to  the 

180 


Beyond  the  Footlights 

Gate  and  gave  a  very  loud  knock  which  soon  brought  out 
St.  Peter.  I  says  to  him,  says  I,  '  Look  here,  Sir,  it's  not 
fair  nor  honourable  ;  you  would  not  let  me  in  because 
I'm  an  actor,  and  then  you  go  and  let  Henry  Irving  in, 
whose  theatre,  the  Lyceum,  is  bigger  than  mine.'  '  Oh  ! 
Henry  Irving  ! '  said  St.  Peter,  '  we  don't  call  him  an  actor 
here  /  '  " 

Irving  added  to  a  noble  greatness  of  soul  a  princely 
generosity  of  heart.  It  was  many  a  time  that  the  poor 
out-at-elbows  actor  was  helped  by  him.  He  had  little  of 
the  arrogance  of  success,  and  in  this  was  essentially  great. 
Greatness  is  more  rare  in  the  wearing  of  the  laurel  than 
in  the  earning  of  it.  There  is  no  superiority  in  your  great 
man.  What  is  superior  in  him  he  does  not  tell  you  ;  it 
is  you  that  discern  it.  And  in  this  there  is  a  relationship 
between  all  that  are  truly  great,  that  they  bear  themselves 
with  that  dignity  of  modesty  which  in  truth  is  no  affecta- 
tion, for  they  know  of  heights  beyond  which  only  in  their 
dreams  they  reach.  However  much  the  world  may  blazon 
their  triumphs,  their  own  souls  record  the  measure  of  their 
failures.  This  writer  has  seen  multitudes  of  men,  many 
of  them  labelled  with  Celebrity  or  Fame,  but  their  great- 
ness is  less  in  inherence  than  in  hearsay. 

In  estimating  greatness,  one  considers  less  what  the  man 
has  done  than  what  the  man  is.  It  is  conceivable  that 
from  some  mind  might  emanate  a  work  that  echoes  down 
the  ages,  and  yet,  apart  from  it,  the  man  might  have  a 
petty  soul.  Such  are  not  the  souls  of  the  Great !  What 
of  such  is  visible  within  the  souls  of  Beaconsfield,  of  Glad- 
stone, of  Tennyson,  of  Kitchener,  of  Shaftesbury,  of  Owen, 
of  Irving  ?  Ah  !  how  I  feel  it  when  I  traverse  other  lands, 
the  bountiful  France,  the  lonely  Alp-lands,  the  Italy  of 
Romance,  that  the  heirs  of  England  can  never  be  diminu- 

181 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

tive  or  poor,  whose  motherland  conceived  such  men  as 
these.  They  in  themselves  would  make  an  Empire  great. 
They  are  incentives  for  all  time,  something  wherewith 
to  raise  the  standard  of  the  years  unborn. 

And  oh,  ye  Gods,  the  lights  and  shadows  mingling  in 
the  folds  as  falls  the  curtain  upon  Irving's  life  !  He  was 
the  Cardinal  in  Tennyson's  Becket.  With  open  hand 
pressed  to  the  weary  eyes,  he  exclaims  :  "  Into  Thy  hands, 
O  God,  I  commend  my  Cause  !  "  and  they  ring  the 
curtain  down  upon  the  privations,  the  struggle,  the  sus- 
pense, the  aims,  the  laurels  of  a  great  life,  and  there  remains 
for  him  but  the  repose  of  the  Abbey  and  the  remembrance 
of  a  people. 


XIV 

THE    GRACIOUSNESS    OF    GRATITUDE 

Gratitude  the  Gold  of  the  Gods.  "  Where  are  the  Nine  ?  "  The  Empress  Eugenie's 
Gratitude  to  Sir  John  Burgoyne.  The  Story  of  Her  Flight.  The  Unlatched 
Gate  and  the  Open  Heart.  The  Story  of  how  Mr.  Milles-Lade  inherited 
Nash  Court.  A  Return  from  the  Dead.  A  Husband's  Repudiation  of  his 
Bride  on  Bridal  Night. 


RATITUDE  is  the  gold  of  the  gods  ;  the  gracious 
blossom  of  the  beautiful  soul.  In  days  of  old  a 
God  in  human  guise  walked  our  human  ways.  His  heart 
was  heavy  with  our  sorrows,  but  His  soul  was  illumined 
with  the  recollections  of  Light.  He  laid  His  tender  hands 
upon  the  sightless  eyes,  and  they  that  dwelt  in  darkness 
saw  once  more  the  long-lost  features  of  fond  wife  and 
child,  and  all  the  generous  glories  of  the  world.  One  day 
He  met  ten  blinded  men,  and  gave  them  back  their  sight. 
One  came  and  blessed  the  Master,  but  through  the  long- 
drawn  centuries  of  Time  —  Where  are  the  Nine  ?  Their 
descendants  crowd  the  land.  No  race  has  ever  had  a 
progeny  prolific  such  as  theirs.  You  will  meet  them  every- 
where, in  tropic  climes  and  frozen  zones  ;  in  cities  and 
in  solitudes,  and  every  spot  where  mortals  meet.  In  sooth 
it  is  a  thankless  world,  and  most  of  our  gratitude  is  reserved 
for  the  leaving  of  it.  Wherefore  it  is  that,  like  intrinsic 
gold,  the  beautiful  rare  gratitudes  of  men  are  of  all  earthly 
things  most  precious.  The  pilgrim  in  the  passage  of  his 
days  takes  note  of  them.  They  are  as  the  occasional 
flowers  growing  within  the  shadows  of  a  wood, 

183 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

I  love  to  think  of  them,  and  gather  a  bunch  or  so  from 
memory. 

When  the  widowed  Empress  of  the  French  sat  down 
to  portion  out  her  property,  thinking  of  friends  and  rela- 
tives in  all  the  beautiful  things  she  had  to  leave,  the  Gold 
of  Gratitude  was  in  the  gift  she  left  Sir  John  Burgoyne. 

A  woman  gently  nurtured,  used  to  delicate  apparel, 
can  you  picture  her  as  she  was  huddled  out  of  Paris,  with 
old  clothes  on  her,  borrowed  for  complete  disguise  ?  And 
so,  with  dire  memories  of  Marie  Antoinette,  and  all  the 
beautiful  brave  women  whose  proud  heads  had  been 
lowered  on  the  scaffold,  this  sad  Imperial  lady  reached 
the  sea. 

Through  the  courtesy  of  Colonel  Sir  Frederick 
Ponsonby,  who  has  given  to  the  public  a  letter  written  to 
his  father,  Queen  Victoria's  trusted  Secretary,  we  are 
enabled  to  glimpse  for  ourselves  the  anxieties  and  horrors 
of  her  passing  from  the  land  o'er  which  this  tragic  fugitive 
so  regally  had  reigned. 

"  Windsor  House,   Ryde, 

"September  15  (?),  1870. 
"My  DEAR  PONSONBY, 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  give  you  a  short  account  of 
the  extraordinary  circumstance  of  my  bringing  H.I.M. 
the  Empress  over  in  the  Gazelle.  I  am  especially  anxious 
that  it  should  be  known  that  all  that  occurred  was  by  the 
most  pure  accident,  as  I  fear  an  impression  has  got  abroad 
that  I  was  in  Deauville  Harbour  *  waiting  events.' 

"  Lady  Burgoyne  had  been  abroad  for  some  months, 
and  I  went  in  the  yacht  to  Trouville  (Deauville  Harbour) 
to  meet  her  on  the  24th  August.  We  were  detained  there 
by  bad  weather  and  head  winds  longer  than  we  expected, 

184 


The  Graciousness  of  Gratitude 

and  so  much  did  we  wish  to  get  away  that  on  two  occasions 
I  was  ready  for  sea,  and  had  the  pilot  on  board,  but  by  his 
advice  did  not  go  to  sea.  I  mention  these  details  to  prove 
that  I  am  not  mixed  up  in  foreign  complications. 

"  On  Tuesday,  the  6th  September,  at  about  2  p.m., 
two  strangers  came  on  board  and  asked  to  be  allowed  to 
see  an  English  yacht.  I  happened  to  be  on  board,  and 
myself  showed  them  over  the  yacht.  One  of  them  suddenly 
asked  to  be  allowed  to  say  a  few  words  in  private  ;  he 
then  informed  me  that  the  Empress  was  concealed  in 
Deauville,  wishing  to  be  conveyed  to  England,  and  asked  me 
if  I  would  undertake  to  take  her  over  on  the  yacht ;  after 
consulting  with  Lady  Burgoyne,  considering  the  scanty 
accommodation  on  board,  I  at  once  agreed  to  her  request, 
and  it  was  considered  advisable  that  Lady  Burgoyne  should 
remain  on  board,  as  her  landing  might  create  suspicion. 

"  It  was  arranged  between  the  two  gentlemen  (Dr. 
Evans,  of  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  and  his  nephew)  and  myself 
that  I  was  to  meet  them  at  a  certain  place  on  the  quay  at 
ii  p.m.  that  night  to  settle  at  what  time  Her  Majesty  was 
to  come  on  board.  We  met  and  settled  the  hour  for  five 
minutes  past  12  (midnight).  Oddly  enough,  at  11.30  p.m. 
I  had  the  honour  of  a  visit  from  a  young  Russian  gentleman, 
to  whom  I  had  only  been  introduced  formally,  who  brought 
'  a  friend  of  his  from  Paris  who  was  anxious  to  see  a  yacht.* 
I  had  the  pleasure  of  showing  them  all  over  the  vessel 
except  Lady  Burgoyne's  cabin,  and  have  little  doubt  that 
he  was  a  spy,  who  suspected  something.  I  carefully  watched 
these  two  persons  safely  over  the  railway  bridge  back 
into  Trouville,  and  while  I  was  doing  so,  Dr.  Evans,  the 
Empress  and  Madame  le  Breton  came  up,  and  I  immediately 
took  them  on  board.  The  Empress  was  very  much  agitated 
and  sobbed  bitterly,  and  on  my  saying  to  her,  going  over 

185 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

the  side  :  *  N'ayez  pas  peur,  Madame,'  she  replied  in 
English,  *  I  am  safe  with  an  English  gentleman.'  I  then 
introduced  her  to  my  wife,  who  told  her  the  last  three  days' 
news,  and  read  the  papers  to  her. 

"  At  7  o'clock  we  left  the  harbour,  and  had  very 
heavy  weather,  with  a  nasty  sea  running,  but  the  Gazelle 
is  a  very  fine  sea  boat  and  behaved  splendidly,  but  I  fear 
the  Empress  must  have  suffered  frightful  discomfort, 
although  we  did  all  in  our  power  to  make  her  comfortable. 
I  landed  with  the  Empress  at  Ryde  a  little  before  7  on  the 
8th,  and  she  left  at  mid-day,  via  Portsmouth,  for  Hastings 
to  join  her  son.  If  Her  Majesty  the  Queen  should  speak 
to  you  about  this  occurrence,  I  shall  deem  it  an  immense 
favour  if  you  will  thoroughly  explain  that  my  part  in  it 
was  entirely  from  accident,  and  that  previous  to  2  p.m. 
on  the  6th  I  do  not  think  I  ever  heard  the  Empress's  name 
mentioned  while  I  was  in  France.  The  Empress  had  no 
luggage  of  any  sort  or  kind,  and  what  she  had  to  undergo 
in  her  journey  from  Paris  to  Deauville  had  far  better 
never  be  known.  M.  de  Lesseps  had  nothing  whatever 
to  do  with  her  escape.  I  believe  Prince  Metternich  planned 
it,  and  Dr.  Evans  carried  it  out  most  skilfully. 

"  Believe  me,  yours  very  truly, 

"  MONTAGU  BURGOYNE." 

Sir  John  Burgoyne,  in  the  above  interesting  statement, 
is  more  than  modest  in  recounting  his  own  share  in  what 
may  be  truthfully  stated  as  the  saving  of  the  Empress's 
life,  and  there  is  also  a  remarkable  reticence  regarding  the 
part  he  played  in  the  navigation  of  the  yacht  during  that 
fearful  night.  He  is  silent  also  concerning  the  destruction 
that  befell  other  ships  less  fortunate  than  his  own. 

In  the  dead  of  night,  when  the  storm  grew  to  a  gale, 

186 


The  Graciousness  of  Gratitude 

the  intrepid  Baronet  insisted  in  taking  the  place  of  his 
pilot,  and  obviously  it  is  not  right  that  posterity  should 
be  ignorant  either  of  his  courage  or  his  skill. 

But  a  little  way  from  his  surging  craft  the  immense 
ironclad  Captain  foundered  further  south,  turning  com- 
pletely over,  with  terrible  loss  of  life. 

Had  the  Gazelle  likewise  foundered,  it  might  have 
remained  one  of  the  mysteries  of  history  what  had  become 
of  the  beautiful  Empress.  She  was  seen  by  none  to  leave 
Paris.  All  the  witnesses  of  flight  were  with  her — Evans, 
his  nephew,  and  Madame  le  Breton,  and,  so  well  were  the 
plans  for  departure  laid,  that  not  a  soul  witnessed  the 
embarkation.  Storm  darkened  the  night,  and  the  winds 
were  gathered  for  impending  gales,  and  the  very  crew, 
which  transported  her  from  shore  to  yacht,  would  have 
perished  with  the  noble  heart  which  was  instrumental 
in  the  rescue.  Of  that  night,  and  all  its  happenings  to  the 
sad  woman  who  forsook  her  throne,  there  might  well  have 
remained  no  mortal  tongue  to  tell. 

This  may  possibly  be  controverted  if  it  be  clearly 
proved  that  there  were  any  who  accompanied  Her  Majesty 
only  so  far  as  the  seashore.  It  has  been  asserted  that  such 
is  the  case,  but  it  seems  unlikely  that  the  sagacious  fore- 
thought, which  planned  that  secret  departure  from  Paris, 
would  unnecessarily  have  impeded  its  progress,  or  endan- 
gered its  success,  by  the  presence  of  one  single  needless 
person. 

It  was  a  lovely  morning  in  spring,  and  an  old  woman 
walked  slowly  along  a  lane.  She  chanced  upon  a  gate 
which  gave  her  feeble  fingers  difficulty  in  the  opening.  A 
young  man  came  riding  by,  and,  courteously  dismounting, 
opened  the  gate  for  the  aged  pedestrian,  and  raising  his 
liat  rode  on. 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

Years  afterwards  the  old  lady  died,  and  left  her  entire 
property  to  the  young  man,  in  remembrance  of  his  courtesy. 
The  man  is  an  Earl's  son,  and  has  added  the  lady's  name 
to  his  own.  He  is  Henry  Augustus  Milles-Lade  of  Nash 
Court,  Faversham,  son  of  the  first  Earl  Sondes,  and  brother 
of  the  present  peer.  She  was  not  of  the  Nine. 

A  curious  story  comes  back  to  me  from  my  childhood  ; 
a  story  that  was  noised  throughout  Dublin  years  ago 
before  this  writer's  birth.  It  is  a  story  which  exemplifies 
the  difficulties  of  gratitude.  A  man  had  a  young  and 
beautiful  wife — God  took  her.  A  valuable  ring,  which 
could  not  easily  be  taken  off  the  lifeless  hand,  was  to  be 
buried  with  her.  The  remains  were  taken  from  the  house 
to  the  Church.  An  old  butler,  a  family  servant  loved  and 
trusted,  naturally  knew  of  this  ring  ;  it  was  of  diamonds 
and  valuable.  Concealed  by  the  cloak  of  night,  he  went 
to  the  Church,  and  opening  the  coffin,  amputated  the 
finger,  and  returned  with  the  ring. 

He  had  not  long  re-entered  the  house  when  there  was  a 
ring  at  the  bell,  and  opening  the  door,  clothed  in  her  grave 
clothes  of  white,  stood  the  dead  wife  !  It  appears  that 
she  was  in  a  trance,  and  the  amputation  caused  the  flow 
of  blood  which  woke  her.  Now  what  was  the  overjoyed 
husband  to  do  ?  Was  he  to  prosecute  his  servant  for  theft, 
or  reward  him  for  the  restoration  of  his  wife  ?  The  man 
was  pensioned  but  never  again  seen. 

An  old  Florentine  romance  of  mediaeval  days  recurs 
to  me.  An  exquisite  girl  of  noble  birth  was  in  love  with 
a  young  Count,  whom  her  parents  considered  too  poor. 
They  accepted  for  her  the  offer  of  an  ancient  Marquis  of 
good  estate.  The  marriage  duly  took  place.  It  was  a 
long-drawn  ceremony  on  a  stifling  day  in  June.  Suddenly 
towards  afternoon  a  faintness  overcame  the  bride, 

188 


The  Graciousness  of  Gratitude 

and  to  all  appearance  she  passed  away  on  her  marriage 
eve. 

The  bridal  party  (can't  you  see  them  passing  through 
those  olden  streets  ?)  in  long  procession  bore  her  m  her 
nuptial  robes  to  the  Church,  wherein  they  left  her  lying 
in  state  beneath  a  coverlet  of  bridal  flowers.  There  she 
lay  two  days  awaiting  burial.  To  her  came  the  olden 
Marquis,  and  her  parents  and  her  friends,  and  knelt  and 
prayed.  To  her  also  secretly  and  alone  came  the  lover 
whom  she  loved  !  In  the  mid  watches  of  the  second  night 
the  Marquis  was  awakened  from  his  sloth.  He  sat  up  and 
listened.  Through  the  open  casement  of  that  sultry  night 
a  well-known  voice  crept  up  to  him  and  said  :  "  It  is  thy 
Zola,  come  to  thee  from  the  dead  !  "  To  whom,  passing 
to  the  casement,  he  returned  :  "  A  vaunt,  oh  Spirit  I  trouble 
not  my  dreams !  "  And  straightway  turned  him  to  his 
couch  and  slept. 

Then  she,  the  bride,  recovered  from  her  trance,  wended 
her  weary  way  to  where  her  parents  dwelt.  "  Mother  !  " 
she  called,  "  it  is  thy  Zola,  give  me  peace  and  rest !  "  To 
whom  her  parents,  coming  to  the  window,  said  :  "  Avaunt, 
oh  Spirit !  trouble  not  our  rest !  " 

Then,  with  tottering  steps  and  slow,  that  beautiful, 
homeless  form  passed  downward  through  the  darkened 
street  to  where  her  lover  wept  his  long-drawn  dream  of 
pain.  "  Dear  love  !  "  she  called,  and  tears  were  in  her 
voice,  "  it  is  thy  Zola,  give  her  peace  and  rest ;  save  but 
for  thee  rest  is  not  anywhere  !  "  To  whom  her  lover  said  : 
"  Art  thou  Love's  spirit  ?  Come  and  dwell  with  me  !  " 
and  passing  downward  through  the  darkened  corridors  he 
opened  to  the  light  of  Love. 

It  is  a  traditionary  story,  from  those  mediaeval  days, 
that  Zola's  was  the  one  sole  instance  of  divorce  granted 

189 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

by  the  Pope,  which  nullified  her  marriage  with  the  repu- 
diating Marquis,  legalizing  her  union  with  the  faithful  lover. 

To  come  to  more  prosaic  times,  wherein  the  common- 
places of  the  world,  the  grovelling  search  for  gold,  and 
the  glorification  of  inanities,  have  neither  soul  nor  brain 
for  poetry,  I  come  to  some  instances  where  gratitude  is 
rather  experienced  than  expressed. 

The  brother  of  the  first  Earl  of  Norbury  was  in  pos- 
session of  Beechwood,  an  ancient  Toler  property.  This 
he  bequeathed  to  his  daughter  Lady  Osborne,  wife  of  Sir 
Henry,  eleventh  Baronet  of  Ballylemon.  Sir  Henry,  after 
her  death,  married  again  and  left  a  second  family.  For 
a  century  Beechwood  continued  in  the  possession  of  the 
first  named  Lady  Osborne's  descendants,  but  her  line  was 
extinguished  on  the  death  of  Sir  Charles  Stanley  Osborne, 
fourteenth  Baronet,  who  bequeathed  his  property  to  his 
wife,  the  baronetcy  passing  to  a  descendant  of  the  afore- 
said Sir  Henry  Osborne's  second  wife.  The  old  Dowager 
Lady  Osborne  considered  it  hardly  right  to  leave  Toler 
property  to  Osbornes  who  had  no  Toler  blood,  and  most 
generously  left  it  back  to  Colonel  James  Graham  Toler. 
His  son  Captain  Leopold  Graham  Toler,  the  present  Squire 
of  Beechwood,  is  the  second  heir  presumptive  to  the  earldom 
of  Norbury.  He  was  one  of  the  earliest  of  prisoners,  and 
remained  in  brutal  captivity  the  entire  length  of  the  war. 
Lord  Norbury  showed  an  example  in  self-abnegation 
equalled  by  none.  Using  a  unique  gift  for  carpentering, 
he  went  out  as  an  ordinary  mechanic,  and  though  naturally 
inured  to  ease  and  comfort,  gave  of  his  best  for  the  benefit 
of  the  Motherland. 

Exceptional  as  was  his  skill,  it  is  his  example  that  counts, 
and  so  long  as  the  Motherland  has  sons  as  he,  we  may  fear- 
lessly face  the  furies  of  the  future. 

190 


The  Graciousness  of  Gratitude 

Others  may  know  of  more,  but  this  writer  is  aware 
of  only  one  instance  beyond  that  already  cited  of  testamen- 
tary benevolence  so  honourable  and  so  unique. 

The  Longs  of  Hurts  Hall  in  Suffolk,  possessed,  in 
addition  to  their  own  family  property,  the  beautiful 
historic  estate  of  Glemham  Hall,  for  centuries  the  home 
of  the  Norths,  Earls  of  Guilford.  The  late  Mrs.  Long, 
although  she  had  sons  of  her  own,  actually  left  the  place 
back  to  the  Norths,  with  its  splendid  old  hall,  and  rooms 
full  of  rare  and  ancient  furniture,  pictures  and  tapestries. 
When  stopping  there,  this  writer  often  said  that  Lord 
Guilford  could  scarcely  do  less  than  have  some  tablet  or 
bust  placed  in  the  olden  church  to  commemorate  a  bene- 
ficence whereby  he  so  largely  benefits.  Of  those  ten  blinded 
men  restored  to  sight  (perhaps  you  can  remember  better 
than  I),  but  was  there  more  than  one  that  returned  to  render 
thanks  ?  Verily  I  think  that,  with  the  exception  of  thanks 
rendered  as  the  forerunners  of  expectation,  gratitude  is  the 
rarest  of  beautiful  things.  Alas  and  alas,  where  are  the 
Nine  ? 


191 


XV 

RIGHT   REVEREND    RECOLLECTIONS 
(And,  sometimes,  Very  Reverend) 

Dr.  Moorhouse,  Bishop  of  Manchester:  the  Bishop's  Profane  Cigar  :  Gratitude  that 
did  not  end  in  Smoke.  A  Bishop's  At  Home.  I  am  introduced  to  a  "  Mongrel." 
The  Dean  of  Manchester  and  his  Unique  Appointment.  Lord  Braybrooke 
Hereditary  Visitor  to  his  own  College.  A  Magnificent  Dignitary,  the  late 
Dean  Liddell  of  Christ  Church.  The  Chaperoning  of  a  Young  Nun.  The 
Dean's  Dilemma.  Recollections  of  the  Bishop  of  London.  I  visit  His  Lordship 
at  Fulham  Palace.  Walsham  How,  late  Bishop  of  Wakefield.  An  Archbishop 
in  Trousers.  Bishop  Stubbs  and  a  Conundrum.  A  Mitre  in  Dispute — a  Scene 
at  Crewe  Hall.  A  Toss-up  for  a  Wife — Lord  Congleton  Wins  and  Marries  an 
Armenian.  Bishop  Stubbs  annexes  Rhoda  Broughton.  Bettering  a  Bishop 
in  Argument.  A  Lawn  Meet. 

IT  is  with  difficulty  that  I  believe  it.      It  is  incredible 
that  I  that  am  not  seldom  the  child  of   Satan  have 
been  so  often  on  terms  of  friendship  with  a  Rigrit  Reverend 
Father  in  God. 

The  kindness  of  many  such  has  been  to  me  a  privilege 
and  pride.  What  I  have  learnt  from  their  exalted  lives, 
their  erudition  and  their  dignity  no  man  can  say.  It  needs 
no  mean  diffusion  of  qualities  to  be  a  bishop.  A  prelate 
must  needs  possess  a  soupfon  of  piety,  a  genius  for  organiza- 
tion, a  temper  serenely  controllable,  and  a  mastery  of 
mind  unbiassed  for  the  adjudication  of  diocesan  difficulties. 
Such  men  are  not  easy  to  be  found,  yet,  thank  God,  they 
are  so  frequently  procurable. 

If,  in  addition  to  these  unusual  qualities,  a  bishop 
should  be  by  birth  a  gentleman,  a  man  of  the  world,  and 
a  prelate  who  can  pilot  us  across  the  maelstrom  of  the 

192 


Right  Reverend  Recollections 

mundane,  as  well  as  to  that  realm  afar,  distant  and  unknown, 
we  have  in  truth  a  man  whose  friendship  is  an  abiding 
memory. 

This  writer  was  privileged  in  the  friendship  of  a  man 
who,  in  addition  to  the  many  qualities  we  have  mentioned, 
was  the  possessor  of  a  strain  of  eloquence  rarely  equalled 
on  the  Episcopal  Bench,  but  also  of  a  vein  of  humour 
absolutely  unique. 

It  was  during  my  frequent  visits  to  Foster  Grey  Black- 
burne,  Archdeacon  of  Manchester,  whose  house  indeed  was 
a  home  to  me,  that  I  first  met  and  frequently  encountered 
that  remarkable  man  who  was  Bishop  of  the  Diocese. 

Looking  at  Dr.  Moorhouse,  one  was  not  long  without 
the  certainty  that  here  indeed  was  a  prelate  with  many  of 
the  elements  of  greatness.  His  commanding  figure, 
upright  as  was  his  life,  gave  him  an  unusual  dignity,  and 
the  speed  with  which  he  put  you  at  your  ease  betrayed 
the  kindness  of  his  heart  and  the  courtesy  of  his  character. 
I  have  listened  to  him  on  all  sorts  of  occasions ;  to  his  pulpit 
utterances,  so  forcible,  so  well-balanced,  at  times  so  ora- 
torical ;  to  his  speeches  at  ecclesiastical  councils,  and  to 
arguments  addressed  to  meetings  which  were  purely 
municipal,  that  I  was  enabled  to  gauge  somewhat  the 
capabilities  of  the  man  with  an  added  sense  of  his  com- 
pleteness every  time. 

It  was  a  sight  to  see  the  Bishop  and  the  Dean  together, 
both  men  of  such  commanding  height.  They  made  any 
Cathedral  procession  imposing.  The  Dean,  an  Irishman, 
whose  brother  was  a  Baronet  and  M.P.,  was  little  behind 
the  Bishop  in  his  sense  of  humour.  To  hear  those  digni- 
taries as  they  downed  each  other  in  repartee  was  a  lesson  in 
the  flexibilities  of  language. 

What  won  for  this  writer  the  Bishop's  heart  happened 

193  13 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

in  this  wise.  Just  after  luncheon  one  Sunday  the  Arch- 
deacon came  to  the  smoking-room  in  rather  an  agitated  way 
saying,  "  I've  just  had  a  letter  telling  me  that  the  Bishop 
and  Mrs.  Moorhouse  are  coming  here  to  tea,  and,  do  you 
know,  I  haven't  such  a  thing  as  a  cigar  in  the  house  ;  do 
you  happen  to  have  one  ?  "  His  Lordship  was  a  vehement 
smoker  and  loved  a  good  weed.  I  allayed  as  far  as  possible 
the  Archdeacon's  apprehensions,  telling  him  that  if  there 
were  a  cigar  in  Bury  he  could  trust  me  to  unearth  it.  I 
therefore  departed  hopefully  into  the  town  of  a  hundred 
thousand  inhabitants.  My  first  venture  was  naturally 
to  the  principal  tobacconist.  Of  course  I  found  the  shop 
closed  and  timorously  rang  at  the  side  door,  and  a  portly 
person  in  Sunday  finery  responded.  She  was  the  tobac- 
conist's wife.  When  I  asked  her,  could  I  have  a  good 
cigar,  she  nearly  collapsed,  and  I  thought  she  would  have 
a  fit.  With  a  gasp  she  said  :  "  Good  gracious,  Sir,  don't 
you  know  that  this  is  Sunday  ?  "  I  said  :  "  I  should  never 
have  troubled  you,  Mrs.  Trimmer,  but  it's  not  for  myself 
and  it's  a  matter  of  importance  that  I  should  obtain  a  good 
cigar,  and  "  (thinking  a  dose  of  flattery  might  do  something), 
"  there's  not  a  man  in  Manchester,  let  alone  Bury,  who  is 
such  a  judge  of  a  cigar  as  your  husband  is."  "  Lord,  Sir, 
if  it  was  for  the  Prince  of  Wales  himself,  Mr.  Trimmer 
would  not  sell  a  cigar  of  a  Sunday !  "  I  then  rapidly 
conjectured  that  nothing  short  of  making  a  clean  breast 
of  the  situation  would  in  any  way  avail  me.  Whereupon  I 
said  :  "  Dear  Mrs.  Trimmer,  it's  for  the  Lord  Bishop,  and 
if  I've  got  to  steal  one,  a  cigar  I  must  have."  You  never 
saw  such  a  transfiguration  in  mortal.  "  Oh,  Sir,  it's  for  the 
Lord  Bishop,  is  it  ?  If  you  don't  mind  coming  this  way, 
will  you  come  into  the  shop  and  I'll  give  you  half  a  dozen 
of  our  best  for  the  Bishop  to  choose  from  !  " 

194 


Right  Reverend  Recollections 

I  returned  triumphant  and  laid  my  ungodly  offering 
before  the  astonished  Archdeacon. 

When  the  Bishop  was  smoking  his  cigar  after  tea,  in  a 
low  voice  I  imparted  to  Mrs.  Moorhouse  how  that  cigar 
had  been  procured.  She  said  :  "  Oh,  but  you  must  tell 
the  Bishop  that !  "  I  did  so.  His  Lordship's  gratitude 
did  not  end  in  smoke.  Some  weeks  afterwards  he  came 
again,  and  this  is  what  he  said  to  me  : 

"  Mrs.  Moorhouse  and  I  have  an  At  Home  next  Thurs- 
day week.  It  is  an  evening  affair.  We  should  so  like  you 
to  come,  but  I  think  it  my  duty  to  warn  you  that  there 
will  be  clergy  in  a  very  large  majority.  It  will  be  very 
much  out  of  your  line,  but  we  do  hope  we  shall  see  you. 
You  will  get  the  usual  card,  and  come  if  you  can." 

Naturally  I  thanked  him  very  much. 

When  the  evening  came,  after  greeting  Mrs.  Moorhouse 
who  was  at  the  head  of  the  staircase,  the  Bishop  came  up 
to  me  and  said  :  "  I've  asked  the  Dean  to  find  you  a  layman 
to  talk  to."  And  turning  to  Dean  Maclure  he  said  :  "  Now, 
Mr.  Dean,  find  him  something  satisfactory." 

It  was  a  very  large  At  Home.  They  seemed  to  have 
unearthed  all  the  parsons  in  Christendom.  There  were 
also  the  parsons'  wives  and  many  of  the  parsons'  daughters. 
It  took  us  some  time  to  find  a  layman.  At  last  I  was 
introduced  to  Dr.  Tristram,  the  well-known  Chancellor. 
After  awhile  I  encountered  the  Bishop,  who  asked  me  had 
they  found  me  a  layman.  "  I  very  much  regret  having 
to  tell  you,  my  Lord,  that  Mr.  Dean  has  grossly  deceived 
me.  He  said,  '  Ah,  here  is  what  we're  wanting,'  and 
introduced  me  to  Dr.  Tristram.  I  was  at  first  quite  satis- 
fied, but  as  we  talked  I  was  conscious  of  suspicion,  for  his 
conversation  showed  me  that  he  was  a  species  of  clergyman 
I  had  not  previously  encountered.  I  now  find,  my  Lord, 

195  13* 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

that  he  is  a  mongrel,  for  as  Chancellor,  he's  only  half  and 
half.' '  The  Bishop  told  this  story  to  everyone,  and  for 
a  long  time  after  the  unfortunate  Chancellor  was  always 
alluded  to  as  the  Mongrel. 

We  have  referred  to  Dean  Maclure.  There  is  this 
of  interest  concerning  him,  and  as  far  as  I  am  aware 
unprecedented.  In  the  year  1 890  the  Archdeaconry  of  Man- 
chester fell  vacant.  It  is  a  dignity  in  the  gift  of  the  Bishop, 
and  Bishop  Moorhouse  gave  it  to  Mr.  Maclure,  vicar  of 
Rochdale.  He  had  hardly  done  so  when  the  Deanery  of 
Manchester  fell  vacant,  which  is  in  the  gift  of  the  Crown. 
The  Crown  bestowed  the  Deanery  on  the  newly  made  Arch- 
deacon. Consequently  the  recently  appointed  Archdeacon, 
who  had  never  taken  office  as  such,  was  Dean  of  Manchester, 
and  the  Archdeaconry  again  fell  back  into  the  Bishop's 
hands  for  bestowal. 

A  curious  coincidence,  which  in  all  probability  will 
never  recur,  deserves  mention.  The  Lords  Braybrooke 
are  hereditary  Visitors  of  Magdalene  College,  Cambridge 
(which  by  the  way  is  not  pronounced  Maudlin  as  is  the 
sister  College  at  Oxford  of  the  same  name,  where  the  Prince 
of  Wales  was  in  residence).  When  Dean  Neville  succeeded 
his  brother  as  Lord  Braybrooke,  he  must  have  felt  at  times 
a  little  beside  himself,  for  he  was  at  one  and  the  same 
moment  Dean  of  the  College  in  residence  and  also  Visitor 
to  Magdalene. 

The  Dean  of  Christ  Church  of  my  day  was  a  splendid 
specimen  of  a  dignitary,  and  looked  born  to  the  position 
of  Head  of  that  imposing  corporation.  Member  of  an  old 
family,  Dean  Liddell  has  all  the  predilections  of  an  aris- 
tocrat and  badly  bore  the  plutocracy.  He  was  a  man  with 
whom  you  could  not  by  any  possibility  take  a  liberty,  and 
to  be  invited  to  the  Deanery  was  a  distinction,  a  distinction 

196 


Right  Reverend  Recollections 

not  devoid  of  terror  until  the  Dean  departed  leaving  you  to 
the  gentler  atmosphere  of  Mrs.  Liddell. 

It  is  a  glad  memory  to  this  writer  that  he  utterly  routed 
the  Dean  on  one  occasion.  The  Dean  showed  little 
animosity,  inasmuch  as  he  subsequently  gave  a  breakfast  in 
the  writer's  honour  ;  but  that  is  another  story. 

You  must  know  that  the  undergraduates  of  Christ 
Church  have  seats  apportioned  to  them  up  the  centre  aisle 
of  the  Cathedral,  which  is  primarily  the  College  Chapel. 
These  seats  facing  each  other  are  about  four  rows  on  either 
side,  and  beyond  the  fourth  or  upper  row  there  is  a  stout 
velvet  rope  separating  the  undergraduates  from  the  general 
congregation. 

On  one  occasion  the  venerable  Canon  Pusey  was  adver- 
tised to  preach.  The  Cathedral  apparently  contained 
every  nun  in  Christendom.  Behind  me  as  I  sat  in  the 
upper  row  was  a  dear  old  nun  somewhat  stout  accompanied 
by  quite  a  picture  of  a  girl  also  in  sisterhood  orders.  The 
black  and  white  exquisitely  framed  her  face.  There  were 
not  many  such  in  that  mediaeval  city,  and  I  conjectured 
that  I  should  derive  more  benefit  from  that  sermon  if  only 
I  could  face  the  other  way.  After  a  while  the  old  lady, 
standing  there  in  that  crowded  Cathedral,  showed  evident 
signs  of  fatigue.  I  thereupon  out  with  my  pocket  knife 
and  cut  the  rope.  It  was  natural  for  a  gentleman  to  offer 
the  old  lady  his  seat,  and  I  took  her  place  and  chaperoned 
the  young  nun. 

You  must  know  that,  unlike  other  Colleges,  the  mem- 
bers of  the  "  House  "  wear  white  surplices  except  on  days 
called  "  Black  Prayers,"  when  they  wear  gowns.  This 
particular  day  was  a  day  of  "  White  Prayers."  You  could 
not  imagine  how  grotesque  it  looked  to  see  this  dear  old 
black-robed  nun  wedged  in  among  the  surplices.  The 

197 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

Dean  opposite  looked  thunder  at  me,  and  I  could  see  that 
I  had  made  an  impression. 

After  the  sermon  was  over  and  we  all  trooped  out,  a 
verger  came  up  to  me  and  said  :  "  Mr.  Dodgson's  compli- 
ments, Sir,  and  he  would  like  to  see  you."  (He  was  dear 
old  Alice  in  Wonderland,  my  mathematical  tutor.)  Then 
it  was  the  Proctor's  compliments  and  he  would  like  etc.  etc. 
And  then  it  was  a  message  from  the  Very  Reverend  the 
Dean.  I  saw  them  all — or  rather  they  all  saw  me — and 
the  Dean  said  it  was  a  very  serious  case  and  there  would 
be  a  meeting  to  discuss  it,  and  subsequently  I  was 
summoned  to  attend  the  Deanery  on  a  certain  day.  The 
Dean  then  informed  me  that  this  very  serious  matter  had 
been  carefully  considered,  and  the  Governing  Body  had 
determined  that  I  must  "  go  down  "  for  the  remaining 
portion  of  the  term.  The  London  season  was  then  in  full 
swing.  I  said  to  the  Dean  :  "  I  bow,  Sir,  to  your  decision, 
but  may  I  be  allowed  to  ask  you,  Mr.  Dean,  whether  it 
will  not  be  thought  strange  in  London  that  a  man  has  been 
sent  down  from  the  House  which  has  been  for  centuries 
celebrated  as  the  nursery  of  gentlemen  simply  for  his 
courtesy  to  an  ancient  gentlewoman  ?  ): 

I  heard  no  more  about  that  going  down. 

On  two  occasions  it  was  my  good  fortune  to  be  invited 
to  meet  the  Bishop  of  London  (Winnington-Ingram). 
At  the  first  house  party  he  stopped  three  days,  at  the  other, 
four.  Charming  to  talk  to,  he  is  a  man  of  singular  kindness, 
but  as  a  conversationalist  he  is  not  what  the  late  Bishop  of 
Wakefield  was,  the  late  Bishop  of  Manchester,  or  Dr. 
Stubbs,  Bishop,  first  of  Chester  and  ultimately  of  Oxford. 
There  was  more  of  reticence  than  of  revelation  in  his  talk, 
and  though  his  courtesy  veiled  it,  he  seemed  to  care  but 
little  for  subjects  other  than  his  own. 

108 


Right  Reverend  Recollections 

He  may  possibly  possess  those  gifts,  but  whatever  he 
has  of  epigram  or  repartee  is  obviously  suppressed.  One 
evening,  I  remember,  the  talk  turned  on  the  laborious  life 
of  a  bishop,  and  the  difficulty  of  attendance  at  the  Lords, 
in  addition  to  the  duties  of  diocesan  work.  Knowing 
that  it  was  said  of  his  Lordship,  I  know  not  with  what  truth, 
that  he  gave  a  lift  home  in  his  carriage  to  artisans  and 
mechanics,  I  tremulously  ventured  the  assertion  that  when 
in  bygone  days  the  salaries  were  voted  to  the  several  sees, 
such  salaries  were  estimated  to  meet  the  expenses  and  style 
necessary  to  those  who,  by  Act  of  Parliament,  were  peers 
spiritual,  and  that,  in  the  estimation  of  the  public,  a 
prelate  had  always  been  a  personage,  and  the  great  respect 
in  which  he  was  held  would  survive  even  the  partial 
obliteration  of  religious  belief.  This  is  explained,  I  argued, 
by  the  social  position  of  a  bishop,  a  respect  originated  and 
maintained  by  the  style  in  which,  by  Act  of  Parliament,  he 
was  enabled  to  live.  The  Bishop  suggested,  rather  than 
stated,  that  a  minister  of  Christ,  which  indeed  is  the 
principal  thing  that  a  bishop  is,  should  not  show  such 
differences  as  Parliament  intended.  The  Bishop  of 
London  is  altogether  unassuming  in  his  manner.  He 
would  not  allow  of  a  carriage  to  be  brought  out  to  carry 
him  to  the  station.  Although  four  hundred  miles  from 
London,  he  had  but  a  Gladstone  bag  for  all  his  belongings, 
and  it  was  with  every  conceivable  degree  of  difficulty  that 
I  was  able  to  wrest  from  him  this  luggage  and,  under 
continual  protest,  carry  it  to  the  station.  This  writer  has 
carried  the  bags  of  various  prelates,  but  reluctance  on  the 
part  of  most  of  them  has  been  far  from  robust. 

It  was  one  of  England's  rare  days  of  summer.  To  live 
was  a  joy ;  for  the  flowers  were  there  to  meet  the  sun. 
The  river  tarried  in  its  race  and  forgot  the  nearing  sea. 

199 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

Many  thoughts  were  mine  that  June  day  of  that  year  of 
grace  1921  as  I  lingered  along  through  Fulham  churchyard 
and  the  approaches  to  the  venerable  palace. 

The  presence  of  one  outstanding  tombstone,  massive 
and  commanding,  brought  to  mind  many  memories 
that  were  not  exactly  ecclesiastic.  Under  that  great 
memorial  block  rested  all  that  was  mortal  of  the  last 
Viscount  Ranelagh,  who  assuredly  at  his  burial  must  have 
found  himself  in  closer  and  more  continuous  proximity  to 
a  Right  Reverend  Father  in  God  than  was  ever  his  experience 
in  the  lengthy  course  of  his  elastic  life. 

Some  great  men  have  left  a  memorable  name  by 
mighty  deeds.  Lord  Ranelagh  will  be  remembered  so  long 
as  polo  and  tea-drinking  survive,  without  any  such  deeds 
of  greatness  or  of  brain,  mainly  by  the  fact  of  his  name 
being  associated  with  a  club  whereto  Mayfair  largely 
resorts  on  the  Saturdays  of  its  season. 

The  noble  viscount  and  his  varied  career  provided 
strange  ante-rooms  of  thought  for  a  privileged,  pre- 
arranged visit  to  the  dear  Bishop  of  London.  It  was  but  at 
Eastertide  that  this  writer  had  been  received  and  blessed 
by  the  Cardinal  Archbishop  of  Westminster.  Thinking 
of  his  Eminence  one  could  not  but  contrast  that  radiancy 
of  rose  colour  which  so  splendidly  robed  him  with  the 
exquisitely  dignified  purple  which  cassocked  the  Prelate 
as  he  emerged  from  his  sanctum  to  receive  me. 

The  slight,  well-knit  figure,  so  excellently  controlled  by 
exercise  of  many  a  manly  sport  (his  Lordship  is  exceptional 
in  tennis,  golf,  rackets ;  and  one  has  to  be  up  early  to  over- 
take him  as  a  cyclist  or  pedestrian),  so  well  befitted  those 
ancient  rooms  and  the  dignified  taste  with  which  they  are 
furnished.  Flowers  were  everywhere,  and  an  open  grand 
evidenced  the  domesticity  of  the  man.  The  open  case- 

200 


Right  Reverend  Recollections 

ments  brought  you  no  suspicion  of  the  strife  and  strain  of 
that  London  which  was  so  near  and  yet  so  silent. 

I  cannot  avoid  giving  this  instance  of  the  Bishop's  tact 
and  kindness.  Bringing  me  into  his  own  room,  wherein 
was  a  large  desk,  he  did  not  seat  himself  opposite  it,  with  a 
chair  beyond  for  me.  As  I  made  for  that  chair,  awaiting 
his  gesture  to  be  seated,  he  said  :  "  No,  you're  not  here  on 
business,  we  are  here  to  have  a  talk.  Let's  be  comfortable." 
And  he  wheeled  two  armchairs  side  by  side,  and  there 
we  sat. 

The  spring  was  there,  and  so  was  this  its  sunlit  hour. 
I  took  with  me  its  brightness  and  the  encouragement  of 
that  kindly  blessing  which,  indeed,  I  can  never  forget,  it  is 
not  in  me  to  omit  that  in  all  the  diffidence  of  self  so  strongly 
imposed  on  one  by  the  apathy  of  these  days,  the  soul  of  me 
could  scarcely  have  tasted  of  survival  were  it  not  for  the 
recognition  and  affection  of  such  men.  Assuredly  the  nearer 
a  man  gets  to  greatness,  the  more  liberal  is  he  with  that 
counsel  and  encouragement  which  ennobles  the  lives  of 
others. 

Dr.  Walsham  How,  late  Bishop  of  Wakefield,  was  a 
charming  personality,  most  easy  to  talk  to,  and  he  would 
enter  into  your  life,  not  caring  to  dwell  upon  his  own, 
and  seemed  interested  in  all  things  new  to  his  experience. 
It  was  a  great  privilege  to  spend  three  days  with  him. 

Archibald  Campbell  Tait  looked  as  if  he  had  been  born 
an  Archbishop,  and  Benson  was  not  much,  if  any,  behind 
him.  It  is  the  writer's  great  loss  that,  beyond  being  at  his 
garden  parties  at  Lambeth  Palace,  he  never  knew  this  most 
interesting  of  our  prelates. 

I  once  sat  next  to  him  under  the  most  interesting  of 
circumstances.  He  was  seated  in  the  front  row  of  the  stalls 
at  the  Comedy  Theatre.  The  light  was  dim,  almost  to 

30J 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

darkness.  As  we  awaited  the  rising  of  the  curtain,  two 
men  entered,  and  one  took  his  seat  beside  me.  When  the 
curtain  rose,  my  attention  was  occasionally  distracted 
from  the  play  by  the  efforts  of  my  neighbour  to  put  his 
legs  under  the  seat  or  anywhere  unobservable.  They 
appeared  to  give  him  incessant  anxiety.  When  Act  I.  was 
over  and  the  light  turned  on,  it  was  His  Grace  of  Canter- 
bury who  was  next  to  me,  with  the  unusual  adornment, 
not  of  breeches  and  gaiters,  but  of  trousers.  His  son  was 
with  him,  and  they  were  vastly  amused  with  the  play. 
The  Archbishop  attracted  attention  by  his  modest  efforts 
to  avoid  it. 

Talking  of  Archbishops,  I  remember  long  ago  reading 
the  life  of  Archbishop  Whateley.  He  had  been  the  pupil 
of  the  Bishop  of  Bangor,  to  whom  he  was  wont  to  write, 
"  My  dear  Lord  Bishop,"  the  Bishop  writing  to  Whateley, 
"  My  dear  Whateley."  On  the  latter's  elevation  to  the 
Archbishopric  of  Dublin,  the  Bishop  of  Bangor  wrote 
to  him  :  "  My  dear  Lord  Archbishop,  I  must  indeed  con- 
gratulate Your  Grace,  etc.  etc."  or  some  such  like  words. 
Whereupon  the  Archbishop  wrote  and  remonstrated  with 
him,  to  whom  the  Bishop  replied  :  "  As  one  consecrated 
to  so  high  an  office,  it  is  not  in  me  to  address  Your  Grace 
otherwise,  and  I  cannot  think  of  doing  so." 

Once,  telling  Bishop  Stubbs  this  story,  I  asked  him 
what  he  would  do  should  an  old  curate  of  his  be  consecrated 
to  the  Archbishopric  of  Canterbury  ?  Stubbs  thought  a 
moment  and  then  said  in  his  abrupt  way  :  "  Conundrum 
— I  give  it  up  !  " 

When  one  considers  the  power  and  prestige  of  an  Arch- 
bishop and  the  prominence  accorded  to  him  from  the 
earliest  ages  to  this  present  day,  a  position  far  in  advance 
of  that  enjoyed  by  a  Bishop,  it  has  always  seemed  to  me 

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Right  Reverend  Recollections 

strange  that  when,  even  prior  to  mediaeval  days,  the  mitre 
was  designed,  it  gave  no  distinctive  token  to  that  of  the 
Archbishop  differentiating  it  from  the  canonical  headgear 
of  the  Bishop.  There  is  but  one  exception.  The  Bishops 
of  Durham,  who  in  their  day  were  Princes  of  the  Church, 
have  a  ducal  coronet  surrounding  the  rim  of  their  mitre. 

I  remember  that,  when  years  ago  I  was  at  Crewe  Hall, 
that  more  than  eccentric  person,  the  late  Lord  Crewe,  a 
brother-in-law  of  the  kindly  Lord  Houghton,  showed  me 
over  the  house  of  which  he  was  so  justly  proud.  He  ex- 
plained to  me  the  beautiful  stained  glass  panes  illustrating 
in  colour  the  armorial  bearings  inherited  by  him,  and  others 
collateral  to  his  family.  In  process  of  time  we  came  to 
the  coat  of  arms  of  that  Lord  Crewe  who  was  Bishop  of 
Durham,  a  mighty  man  in  his  day.  Most  hazardous  of 
me  and  highly  injudicious  considering  I  knew  the  im- 
petuosity of  the  late  peer  (a  man  who  would  order  up 
dinner  an  hour  before  the  time  if  he  felt  hungry  or  order 
it  to  be  kept  back  if  he  were  not,  and  this  in  a  houseful 
of  guests),  most  inadvisably  I  said  :  "  There's  something 
wrong  about  those  arms."  Lord  Crewe  got  instantly 
inflamed  and  peremptorily  shouted  :  "  'Tis  not !  There's 
nothing  wrong  in  my  house."  With  as  docile  an  air  as  was 
possible  I  ventured  to  tell  him  of  the  ducal  coronet  to 
which  the  Bishops  of  Durham  were  entitled.  "  'Tis  not 
so  !  That's  absurd.  Why  should  one  bishop  have  what 
another  hasn't  ?  I  tell  you  it  is  not  so." 

Lord  Crewe  had  a  good  library.  I  said  to  him  :  "  If 
you  see  it  in  a  creditable  book  on  arms  stating  the  fact,  will 
you  believe  it  ?  "  "  Of  course  I  will,  but  such  a  book 
does  not  exist."  I  asked  him  to  send  for  a  certain  volume 
wherein  is  a  statement  of  the  fact.  This  book  he  sent  for, 
and  as  I  sat  down  to  find  the  passage,  he  glared  at  me  as 

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Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

with  difficulty  I  endeavoured  to  unearth  it.  The  search 
took  considerable  time,  and  all  the  while  his  lordship 
continued  to  jeer  at  my  attempts,  saying,  "  I  told  you 
that  you  could  not  find  it.  I  knew  it  was  not  there.  Don't 
you  ever  tell  me  again  that  you  know  anything  that  I  don't." 
In  a  very  quiet  voice  I  said  to  him  :  "  If  you  will  be  kind 
enough,  Lord  Crewe,  to  read  this  passage  you  will  see  what 
is  the  heraldically  correct  design  of  the  Bishop  of  Durham's 
mitre."  He  had  been  marching  up  and  down  the  room  like 
a  caged  tiger,  but,  taking  the  volume  from  me,  he  sat  down 
and  studied  it.  He  then  rose  up  and  flew  at  me,  both 
hands  extended,  and  in  the  humblest  manner  you  could 
imagine,  implored  of  me  to  forgive  him.  You  never  saw 
a  man  in  such  a  state. 

This  gives  you  a  very  fair  idea  of  a  most  extraordinary 
man — urbanity  itself  when  in  the  mood  and  sometimes 
quite  otherwise  when  not. 

Canon  Henry  Blackburne,  who  held  the  living  of  Crewe 
Green,  quite  close  to  Crewe  Hall,  and  officiated  also  at 
Lord  Crewe's  picturesque  little  chapel  within  the  House 
itself,  told  me  that  he  had  never  had  a  word  with  Lord 
Crewe  all  the  years  he  had  been  there.  It  never  seemed 
to  me  that  all  those  extra  prayers  in  that  private  chapel 
had  much  visible  effect  on  the  noble  owner.  But  some 
seeds  take  a  good  time  to  sprout.  One  never  knows. 

One  of  the  most  extraordinary  men,  a  man  infinitely 
learned  and  with  a  directness  of  utterance  occasionally 
unorthodox  and  always  original,was  the  famous  Dr.  Stubbs. 
It  was  at  a  dinner  party  at  the  Deanery  that  I  first  met 
him.  He  was  then  Bishop  of  Chester,  some  years  before 
his  translation  to  Oxford. 

Dean  Darby  was  an  imposing-looking  Irishman  of  a 
well-known  family,  the  Darbys  of  Leap  Castle,  and  a  near 

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Right  Reverend  Recollections 

relative  of  the  celebrated  John  Darby  who  founded  a 
religious  persuasion  of  a  people  who  call  themselves  Darby- 
ites,  near  relatives,  I  understand,  to  the  Plymouth  Brethren. 
John  Vesey  Parnell,  second  Lord  Congleton,  from  whom 
I  experienced  great  kindness  as  a  boy,  was  once  travelling 
with  John  Darby  in  America.  It  was  a  species  of  proselyte 
tour.  Afterwards  it  was  borne  in  upon  them  that  their 
influence  would  be  greater  if  one  of  them  were  married. 
Whereupon  his  Lordship  and  Darby  tossed  up  and  the 
lot  fell  upon  Congleton,  who  consequently  married  an 
Armenian  lady  named  Khatoon,  daughter  of  Ovauness 
Moscow  of  Shiraz.  This  was  his  second  wife,  who  was 
dead  before  my  day  ;  he  married  yet  again  a  third  wife, 
by  whom,  when  he  was  between  sixty  and  seventy,  he  had 
one  daughter,  Mrs.  Mandeville  of  Anner  Castle,  Clonmel, 
a  great  let  off  for  the  brother  who  succeeded  him.  I  used 
to  see  a  great  deal  of  the  Lord  Congleton  of  whom  I  am 
speaking  when  the  name  of  his  cousin,  Charles  Stewart 
Parnell,  was  in  everybody's  mouth  as  Irish  leader,  and 
you  could  not  make  Lord  Congleton  more  angry  than  by 
talking  of  this  cousin  as  Parw^//,  which  the  head  of  the 
family  asserted  was  absurd,  the  emphasis  being  on  the  first 
syllable — Parnell. 

The  mention  of  Clonmel  reminds  me  of  one  of  the  most 
prompt  of  witticisms  on  record,  and  quite  worth  repeating, 
though  in  its  day  it  was  known  to  many. 

That  witty  Judge,  Sir  John  Toler,  first  Earl  of  Norbury, 
when  told  that  Sir  John  Scott  had  been  created  Lord 
Clonmell  (the  name  of  the  title,  unlike  the  town,  having 
its  last  letter  doubled),  said  :  "  Johnnie  was  always  grasping 
— give  him  an  inch  and  he'll  take  an  L." 

The  only  instance  of  this  Lord  Norbury  having  been 
himself  scored  off  is  the  following.  Being  on  circuit  as 

205 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

Judge  of  Assize  he  found  that  he  had  left  his  slippers 
behind.  He  sent  a  message  down  to  the  Attorney-General 
who  had  rooms  below  asking  for  the  loan  of  these  necessary- 
articles.  The  Attorney-General  was  well  known  to  be 
anxiously  awaiting  elevation  to  the  position  occupied  by  the 
Judge,  and  on  receiving  a  letter  of  thanks  from  his  Lordship 
replied  :  "  Mr.  Attorney  begs  to  thank  his  lordship  for 
Lord  Norbury's  letter  just  received,  and  begs  to  say  that  it 
seems  only  right  that  his  lordship  should  use  Mr.  Attorney's 
slippers  as  Mr.  Attorney  hopes  to  be  soon  walking  in  his 
lordship's  shoes." 

But  to  return  to  the  Dean  of  Chester's  dinner  party. 
I  was  happy  in  bringing  in  that  versatile  and  charming  lady, 
Miss  Rhoda  Broughton,  whose  books  "  Cometh  up  as  a 
Flower  "  and  "  Red  as  a  Rose  is  She,"  were  then  much  in 
vogue.  The  Bishop  sat  on  the  other  side  of  her,  and  he 
certainly  somewhat  neglected  Mrs.  Darby  whom  he  had 
handed  in,  for  the  three  of  us  bandied  words  throughout 
the  dinner.  The  Bishop  unbent  more  than  I  ever  after- 
wards witnessed  in  talking  to  Rhoda  Broughton. 

It  was  many  a  time  I  had  walks  with  his  lordship. 
His  belief,  or  should  it  not  rather  be  said  unbelief,  was 
startling  to  a  degree.  He  had  little  faith  in  the  Old 
Testament,  or  indeed  in  much  that  is  orthodox.  One  day 
he  startled  me  by  saying  :  "  Show  me  a  man  with  ready 
speech,  and  I  reckon  him  as  ready  fool,"  adding  afterwards, 
"  I  have  never  met  a  fluent  speaker  who  was  not  shallow. 
The  only  possible  exception  may  perhaps  be  genius,  but 
who  dreams  of  meeting  genius  nowadays  ?  "  This  writer 
presumed  to  argue  the  dictum,  and  for  about  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  discussed  the  subject.  The  Bishop  was  amazingly 
adroit  in  his  defence.  At  the  end  I  said  :  "  I  would  not 
presume,  my  Lord,  to  apply  to  you  your  own  expression, 

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Right  Reverend  Recollections 

but  don't  you  think  your  own  readiness  in  attempting  to 
discomfit  me  proves  the  destruction  of  your  dictum  ?  " 
He  stopped  short,  looked  at  me  for  about  half  a  minute, 
and  said  :  "  Ton  my  word,  I  think  you  have  me  there  !  " 
I  don't  think  I  have  ever  been  so  pleased  in  my  life.  It 
was  indeed  rare  for  anyone  to  get  the  better  of  Stubbs. 

The  Bishop  was  celebrated  for  his  dry  and  caustic 
wit,  a  humour  infinitely  sardonic.  He  was  greatly  tickled 
by  a  story  which  I  told  him  of  my  very  dear  friend  Major 
Patton-Bethune.  The  latter  was  a  member  of  a  large 
house  party,  which  numbered  a  Bishop  among  the  guests. 
One  morning  he  and  the  prelate  were  driven  in  the  same 
carriage  from  the  house  to  the  railway  station,  his  lordship 
en  route  for  a  consecration,  my  friend  entraining  in  an 
opposite  direction  for  a  run  with  the  county  hounds.  They 
had  each  their  necessary  toggery  in  their  respective  kit 
bags.  When  the  Bishop  got  into  the  vestry  to  attire  him- 
self, he  found  that  he  had  a  complete  hunting  kit,  and  the 
Major  on  proceeding  to  change  found  himself  possessed  of 
the  episcopal  lawn. 


It  was  a  lawn  meet. 


207 


XVI 

KITCHENER    OF    KHARTOUM 

Banqueting  with  Kitchener  and  Chamberlain.  First  Impressions  of  a  Great  Per- 
sonality. A  Big  Man  surrounded  by  Small  Men  in  Great  Office.  Complacency 
equalled  only  by  Ignorance.  Tantalus  they  bound  in  Chains,  Kitchener  in 
Tape.  Kitchener's  Hairbreadth  Escape  from  Capture.  Disaster  anticipated 
In  Egypt.  Kitchener  justifies  his  Appointment.  Kitchener  as  Diplomat 
and  Road-Maker.  The  Patriarch's  unavailing  Obstruction.  The  Mystery 
of  Kitchener's  Death.  The  Secretive  Shadows  of  the  Night.  Heroes  that 
pass,  holding  the  Golden  Bough.  Virgil's  Beautiful  Picture  exemplified. 

IF  one  would  accurately  estimate  celebrity's  degree  of 
greatness,  commend  me  to  the  sacred  dinner  hour. 
We  carry  not  with  us  to  the  festive  board  the  sordid 
surroundings  of  the  day.  We  abandon  care  and  those 
manipulations  of  mind  whereby  we  manoeuvre  ourselves 
into  sorrow  or  success. 

A  dinner,  the  smile  of  your  hostess,  the  brilliance,  the 
expectation  and  suspense  utterly  ostracize  from  memory 
the  burdenr  of  the  day,  and  there  is  a  relaxation  of  feature 
and  perhaps  of  brain,  which  shows  a  man  as  he  is  rather 
than  as  he  appears. 

And,  although  I  make  no  wild  assertion  that  the  grape 
goes  further  than  it  ought  in  the  arousing  of  intellect,  I 
cannot  but  recollect  a  couplet  of  my  youth  : 

"  The  butler  guides  with  masterly  control 
The  flow  alike  of  vintage  as  of  soul." 

The  experience  of  a  life  has  but  emphasized  the  veracity 
of  this  seventeen-year-old  assertion.  In  vino  veritas  is 

208 


Kitchener  of  Khartoum 

as  true  to-day  as  it  was  in  the  long  ago  when  Erasmus 
quoted  the  old  Latin  proverb  in  Cbiliades  Adagiorum. 

It  is  a  matter  of  never  failing  wonder  how  dull  our 
dinners  are.  If  the  woman  we  hand  in  be  a  frivolous  fool, 
the  man  of  mind  is  utterly  lost.  There  remains  nothing 
for  him  but  the  enticements  of  the  chef.  If  one  cannot 
propitiate  the  brain,  by  all  means  pamper  the  body.  What 
multitudes  of  mortals  are  met,  each  with  their  own  speciali- 
ties of  nonentity.  We  wonder  whether  such  inanities  of 
intellect  are  not  assumed  as  a  cloak.  It  seems  unbelievable 
that  it  can  be  otherwise.  That  astute  observer  of  life, 
the  late  Lord  Byron,  was  wont  to  say  that  dullness  at  a 
dinner  party  was  the  sign-manual  of  birth  (how  otherwise 
would  it  be  invited  ? )  and  would  almost  tearfully  entreat 
this  writer  to  reserve  his  epigrams  for  the  privacy  of  his 
pillow. 

I  am  a  great  believer  in  first  impressions.  To  tell 
you  the  truth,  I  often  hark  back  to  those  first  impressions, 
and  contrast  them  with  the  verdict  of  the  moment.  It 
is  frequently  that  the  first  impressions  are  the  more  correct. 
I  am  now  drawing  from  what  I  then  thought  when  for 
the  first  time  I  sat  face  to  face  with  Kitchener  at  dinner. 
It  was  additionally  helpful  that  further  up  the  table  was 
Joseph  Chamberlain.  Never  in  the  history  of  humanity 
were  two  mortals  more  dissimilar  ! 

Not  even  in  the  presence  of  Beaconsfield,  one  of  the 
most  constraining  influences  of  the  age,  did  one  so  dis- 
tinctly realize  the  presence  of  a  commanding  individuality. 

The  appearance,  attitude,  utterance,  all  bespoke  a 
man  born  to  be  great.  There  was  no  manner  of  doubt 
about  it.  Greatness  was  written  large  despite  the  modesty 
that  would  deny  it.  There  are  some  things  that  even  art 
cannot  conceal — the  soul's  littleness,  or  the  soul's  strength. 

209  14 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

And,  mind  you,  strength  is  admitted  by  silence  even  as 
it  is  amplified  by  speech. 

When  Kitchener  was  not  speaking  there  was  often  a 
wonderful  look  of  the  beyond  in  his  eyes  as  of  one  to  whom 
the  deserts  of  Time  are  familiar,  and  but  occasionally  lit 
by  the  oasis  or  the  mirage.  It  was  the  belief  in  these  oases 
that  was  the  keynote  of  his  mental  mastery.  Thousands 
of  us  see  the  sun  and  it  blinds  our  eyes.  We  each  have  our 
small  Khartoums  which  we  never  reach  ;  but  there  was 
no  desert,  however  broad  and  drear,  that  could  stay  the 
man  that  Kitchener  was,  or  more  than  fitfully  delay  his 
destiny. 

As  there  is  much  that  is  compelling  in  Kitchener's 
career — its  early  years  of  suspense,  its  time  of  toil,  the 
indomitable  courage  of  its  progress,  the  fame  and  brilliance 
of  its  crown — so  there  is  sorrow,  the  fidelity  of  a  lifetime 
in  the  one  love  of  his  heart.  In  it  there  was  pathos,  even 
unto  tears.  It  was  the  story  of  love  and  loss,  but  even  in 
loss  more  dearly  loved. 

There  was  in  that  passion  a  heroism  greater  even  than 
that  contained  in  the  endurance  of  his  Desert  days.  It 
was  his  lot  to  love  a  woman  who  was  as  emphatically 
devoted  to  duty  as  was  he.  This  woman  had  been  adopted 
by  a  wealthy  relative,  who  after  the  engagement  fell  in- 
curably ill.  It  was  not  possible,  so  argued  the  girl,  to 
desert  her  in  her  enfeeblement,  and  so  the  man  went  on 
his  lonely  way,  and  had  the  dreary  desert  for  companion, 
where  no  skylark  sings,  and  where  the  vulture  wings  upon 
his  hungry  way.  The  blossom  of  life  was  not  for  him, 
its  interludes  of  love  and  rest ;  but  what  was  his  soul's 
loss  was  England's  salvation  in  the  East.  In  later  days, 
after  the  cares  of  State,  his  car  might  frequently  be  seen 
starting  from  the  historic  Palace  where  he  lodged,  west- 

210 


Kitchener  of  Khartoum 

wards  to  the  house  of  the  elderly  woman  whom  he  still 
loved.  He  leant  upon  her  counsel.  She  was  a  woman  of 
rare  mental  balance.  He  never  sought  her  sympathy  in  vain. 

This  story  has  been  by  some  denied,  but  nevertheless 
it  is  true.  We  are  safe  in  saying  that  the  goal  in  Bolton 
Gardens,  where  so  often  tended  that  car  during  the  strain 
of  the  Great  War,  was  the  home  of  the  one  woman  whose 
influence  was  an  abiding  feature  in  the  life  of  Kitchener. 

This  intimacy  of  mind  meant  much  to  him.  In 
addition  to  her  rare  common  sense  she  was  possessed  of 
humour  even  more  uncommon.  Excellent  is  her  definition 
of  the  man  who  sought  her  advice  so  frequently.  "  Never 
was  a  man  truer  to  his  name.  Outwardly  cold  and  hard 
as  steel,  he  encloses  beyond  human  sight  the  embers,  the 
warmth,  the  fire  he  will  not  show.  Was  ever  man  better 
suited  to  the  name  of  Kitchener  !  "  And  again,  when  he 
was  elevated  to  an  Earldom  as  Earl  Kitchener  of  Khartoum 
and  Viscount  Broome.  "  Very  suitable,"  she  laughed, 
"  every  kitchener  should  have  its  broom." 

Regarding  Kitchener's  title,  it  is  no  breach  of  confidence 
for  me  to  retail  what  was  told  me  by  a  friend  of  the  great 
General.  This  friend  was  with  him  at  the  time  when 
Sir  Herbert  Kitchener  was  elevated  to  the  peerage.  The 
new  peer  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  selecting  his  title. 
He  hated  the  name  Kitchener,  and  kicked  strongly  against 
the  pricks  in  eternalizing  it  in  his  title.  Finally  Lord 
Salisbury  had  actually  to  telegraph  to  him  to  hurry  up 
about  his  decision.  When  the  telegram  arrived,  Kitchener, 
the  above-mentioned  friend  and  some  others  were  seated 
together,  and  the  friend,  turning  to  the  baron-designate, 
said  :  "  Don't  you  think  Kitchener  of  Khartoum  sounds 
very  well  ?  The  Khartoum  sort  of  tones  down  the 
Kitchener."  "  I  don't  think  it  is  a  bad  idea,"  was  all  that 

211  14* 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

Kitchener  said.  He  evidently  thought  well  of  it,  for 
those  are  the  names  by  which  his  barony  was  patented. 

Years  and  years  after  these  troublous  times  have  passed, 
the  future  historian  may  care  perhaps  to  have  it  as  from 
the  eyes  of  one  who  looked  upon  Kitchener  what  the  man 
meant  and  seemed  to  his  contemporaries.  At  that  dinner, 
if  there  were  one  thing  wanting  to  accentuate  his  aloofness 
from  other  men,  it  was  present  in  the  proximity  of  Cham- 
berlain. Here  you  had  the  successful,  dapper  politician  ; 
the  doer  of  many  fine  and  some  great  things ;  the  man  of 
indomitable  resource  and  courage  ;  and  all  honour  be  to  him 
for  that,  for  moral  courage  is  one  of  the  most  inestimably 
precious  of  the  gods'  gifts  to  men.  But  in  Chamberlain 
there  was  no  hallmark  of  greatness.  Success  was  written 
large  upon  him  ;  but  the  Great  in  their  own  souls  have  no 
success ;  they  know  the  greater  for  which  they  strive. 

England  utilized  to  the  full  the  influence  and  prestige 
of  Kitchener's  name.  What  that  was  at  the  time,  history 
will  scarcely  realize,  but  it  is  no  less  a  certainty  that 
Kitchener's  resignation  would  have  meant  the  fall  of  the 
Government.  And  with  the  fall  of  the  Government 
the  wreckage  of  that  unity  in  which  lay  our  sole  hope  of 
victory.  It  will  be  almost  impossible  for  posterity  to  realize 
what  this  one  resignation  would  have  meant  during  some 
phases  of  the  war.  The  country  had  a  wide-spread  belief 
in  Kitchener.  I  very  much  doubt  if  Wellington  himself 
had  ever  the  country  so  thoroughly  at  his  back  as  had 
Kitchener.  And  in  those  crucial  moments  to  possess 
the  country's  confidence  was  to  possess  the  country's  gold, 
the  gold,  be  it  remembered,  not  only  of  treasure  but  of 
human  blood  and  tissue.  For  a  spell  of  time  the  talisman 
of  one  man's  name  drew  'neath  the  banner  of  England 
the  youth  and  the  valour  of  the  land.  In  this  respect 

212 


Kitchener  of  Khartoum 

alone  no  patriot  heart  memorialized  at  St.  Paul's  more 
lastingly  deserves  this  nation's  meed  of  praise.  That  this 
hero's  immortal  dust  lies  not  within  the  triumphant  sound 
of  anthem  and  of  evensong  takes  neither  from  the  laurels 
of  his  life  nor  the  tears  of  his  passing.  The  gods  know 
where  to  keep  the  lion-hearts  they  love. 

And  yet  all  of  this  wonderful  prestige  was  infinitely  less 
due  to  what  he  did  than  to  what  he  was.  It  was  his  name 
that  did  it,  for  the  man  himself  was  getting  past  the  work. 
It  was  work  unspeakably  uncongenial  to  him.  He  was 
too  great,  and  his  life  too  charged  with  big  things  to  have 
patience  with  littleness.  This  big  man  was  surrounded 
by  small  men  in  great  office.  Their  complacency  was 
equalled  only  by  their  ignorance.  The  sloth  of  bureaucracy 
and  the  tardiness  of  official  movement  were  things  irksome 
beyond  words  to  a  mind  that  would  conceive  a  railway  in 
a  night  and  construct  it  on  the  morrow.  Tantalus  they 
bound  with  chains,  Kitchener  in  tape. 

With  regard  to  Kitchener's  pre-war  days,  there  are  a 
few  things  worthy  of  mention. 

Here  is  an  incident  from  the  South  African  War. 
Allusion  has  already  been  made  to  Kitchener's  resource. 
There  exist  on  the  earth  a  fairly  large  proportion  of  re- 
sourceful people,  but  unfortunately  with  the  majority  of 
them  there  is  little  of  alacrity  in  their  resource.  It  is 
alacrity  that  prevents  you  being  too  late.  Kitchener  did 
not  err  in  this  way.  On  one  occasion  the  Boers  miracu- 
lously found  out  that  the  Commander-in-Chief  would  be 
in  a  certain  train.  To  this  day  nobody  knows  how  this 
knowledge  was  obtained,  but  obtained  it  was,  and  the  Boers 
accordingly  made  ready.  At  a  certain  point  some  miles 
distant  from  a  small  encampment  of  our  men  whereto 
Kitchener  was  making  they  took  up  a  few  rails,  which 

213 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

naturally  caused  the  engine-driver  to  pull  up.  Instead  of 
wondering  what  was  up  with  its  consequent  waste  of 
precious  moments,  Kitchener  at  once  rushed  to  a  horse- 
truck,  and  his  Aide  (with  whom  he  was  travelling  alone) 
following  him,  they  hastily  saddled  their  horses.  The 
train  had  barely  drawn  up  when  the  two  men  were  well  on 
their  way.  Meanwhile  scouts  from  our  encampment, 
having  their  suspicions,  had  given  information,  with  the 
result  that  a  party  of  men  went  out  to  meet  the  Commander. 
Kitchener  rode  for  all  he  knew,  and,  most  fortuitously 
meeting  the  men  who  were  on  the  lookout  for  him,  escaped 
capture  by  the  veriest  of  hairbreadths.  But  it  was  his  own 
resource  and  alacrity  which  saved  him,  for  it  was  a  case 
where  the  fraction  of  a  moment  made  all  the  difference. 
The  capture  of  Kitchener  at  that  time  would  have  spelt  a 
significance  in  the  war  and  its  ending  beyond- conjecture. 

After  the  brilliance  of  his  military  campaigns  and  the 
iron  force  of  determination  which  propelled  events  in  the 
Soudan,  it  was  a  matter  of  apprehension  to  many  as  to 
whether  there  was  enough  of  the  diplomatist  in  this  man 
of  steel  for  the  delicate  position  whereto  he  had  been 
appointed  as  Administrator  in  Egypt.  Those  who  knew 
the  land  of  the  Pharaohs  shook  their  heads.  It  was  the 
square  peg  in  the  round  hole,  and  disaster  was  confidently 
anticipated.  Those  who  knew  Kitchener  thought  otherwise. 

Kitchener,  to  the  surprise  of  all  save  those  who  knew 
him,  was  a  born  diplomatist  with  a  mind  especially  adapted 
for  the  subtleties  of  the  East.  His  resource  was  con- 
spicuous. I  may  give  an  instance.  Europeans  interested 
in  the  well-being  of  Egypt,  and  anxious  to  attract  more 
visitors  to  that  country,  banded  themselves  into  a  Syndicate 
and  determined  to  approach  his  Excellency  on  the  subject. 
For  representative  at  this  interview  they  could  not  have 

214 


Kitchener  of  Khartoum 

made  a  better  selection  than  Mr.  Wild.  To  him  was 
allocated  the  delicate  mission  which  approached  Lord 
Kitchener.  When  the  day  of  the  interview  arrived  and 
Kitchener  had  heard  all  that  could  be  said  regarding  the 
necessity  for  the  well-being  of  the  capital  sunk  in  Egypt, 
and  the  necessity  which  was  urged  upon  him  to  exploit  the 
extraordinary  advantages  of  Cairo,  Upper  Egypt  and  the 
Nile,  pointing  out  that  almost  every  class  of  the  community 
was  benefiting  by  the  advent  of  visitors,  Kitchener,  be  it 
recorded,  was  splendidly  observant  of  the  rights  of  the 
natives,  and  would  countenance  no  undertaking  unless 
they  had  a  probability  of  full  share  in  its  advantages. 
Satisfied  of  this,  he  was  ardent  for  the  progress  of  the  land 
he  administered.  He  apprehended  great  difficulty  in  the 
subsidizing  of  one  corporation  to  the  exclusion  of  others. 
The  interview  then  terminated.  A  few  days  later  it 
transpired  that  the  State  Railways  had  come  into  the 
Syndicate,  by  which  the  Syndicate  secured  many  of  the 
advantages  of  which  they  were  desirous.  Thus  by  the 
diplomacy  of  Lord  Kitchener,  whilst  he  could  not  give 
with  his  right  hand,  he  had  dowered  with  his  left. 

As  an  instance  of  Kitchener's  determination  and  fore- 
sight, reference  may  well  be  made  to  his  genius  for  road- 
making.  When  he  took  office  in  Egypt,  there  was  a  half- 
made  road  which  was  intended  to  connect  Cairo  with  the 
health  resort  of  Helouan.  Helouan  is  a  watering-place 
some  twenty  miles  from  Cairo,  additionally  .popular  on 
account  of  the  possession  of  sulphur  springs.  It  was  no  use 
to  Cairo  without  the  means  of  getting  there,  howbeit  there 
was  a  railway  with  infrequent  trains.  One  day  Kitchener 
ordered  the  convicts  out  with  orders  to  make  a  road, 
instructing  them  to  forge  straight  ahead,  and  not  to  stop 
until  they  reached  Helouan.  After  a  while  the  road  chanced 

215 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

upon  the  property  of  the  Greek  Patriarch.  His  servant  stood 
there  with  outstretched  arms,  telling  Kitchener's  engineer  in 
charge  of  the  work  that  he  could  not  proceed  across  that 
land.  To  which  the  latter  replied,  "  My  orders  are  to 
go  straight  ahead,  and  straight  ahead  I  go.  If  the  Patriarch 
has  anything  to  say  on  the  matter,  he  had  better  go  and 
say  it  to  his  Excellency."  That  was  how  Kitchener  did 
business  in  Egypt — is  it  likely  that  he  would  either  compre- 
hend or  tolerate  the  bureaucracies  of  Parliament  Street  ? 

Kitchener  died  two  years  too  late.  His  life  was 
finished  when  his  name  was  the  talisman  of  enlistment. 
The  brain  whereon  the  Afric  sun  had  beat  was  growing 
weary.  The  work  was  distasteful  to  him,  the  routine  and 
monotony  of  it,  and  the  ceaseless  talk  when  action  was 
inevitable.  England  needed  his  name  and  England  got  it ; 
but,  in  getting  it,  she  martyred  the  man. 

Sir  Frederick  Ponsonby  tells  me  that  Kitchener,  being 
asked  what  hours  he  found  best  for  work,  responded  in 
his  own  terse  way  :  "  To  give  out  I  like  the  morning  ; 
to  take  in  give  me  the  night."  I  think  you  have  much 
of  the  man  in  that  sentence. 

Strange  as  it  may  appear,  there  are  some  who  still 
persist  in  discrediting  the  death  of  Lord  Kitchener.  It 
is  undeniable,  as  they  assert,  that  there  is  any  proof  of 
that  death,  not  even  the  rinding  of  a  fragment  of  the  ship. 
No  man  stood  by  his  bier  ;  neither  priest  nor  lover  received 
his  last  sigh.  Where,  in  the  whole  world-wide,  is  his 
mausoleum  ?  You  will  remember  that  the  battleship, 
wherein  he  was  gallantly  proceeding  to  Petrograd,  sank 
unseen  by  any,  and  that  no  soul  whatsoever  saw  sign  or 
symbol  of  that  deadly  strain  and  stress  within  the  secretive 
shadows  of  the  night. 

This  incredulity  on  the  part  of  so  many  is  incredible. 

216 


Kitchener  of  Khartoum 

But  these  disbelievers  are  harking  back  to  mythological 
times  depicted  by  Virgil.  For  ye  who  read  may  remember 
that  there  is  no  degree  of  human  distress  wherefor  the 
divine  gods  have  not  their  own  celestial  comfort.  And 
so,  turning  to  the  ^neid,  I  find  that  the  great  heroes  of 
the  earth,  if  but  they  gather  of  the  Golden  Bough,  may 
pass  unchallenged  across  the  tide,  none  thwarting  them 
nor  saying  that  they  must  divest  themselves  of  human  guise, 
exchanging  the  dust  of  mortality  for  the  spirituality  of 
the  spheres.  No,  but  they  pass  as  ever  they  were,  un- 
changed in  any  respect,  to  continue  in  Elysian  lands  the 
grandeur  and  the  greatness  of  their  human  progress.  It 
is  indeed  significant  that  although  in  mythology  all  the 
great  passed  to  Immortality,  it  was  the  Heroes  alone  and 
none  others  who  passed  onwards  even  as  they  were.  This 
is  what  the  great  poet  depicts :  "  Deep  in  the  shade  of  a 
tree  lurks  a  branch,  all  of  gold,  foliage  alike  and  limber 
twig,  dedicated  to  the  service  of  the  Juno  of  the  shades ; 
it  is  shrouded  by  the  whole  labyrinth  of  the  forest,  closed  in 
by  the  boscage  that  darkens  the  glens.  Yet  none  may 
pierce  the  subterranean  mystery,  till  a  man  have  gathered 
from  the  tree  that  leafy  sprout  of  gold  ;  for  this  it  is  that 
fair  Proserpine  has  ordained  to  be  brought  her  as  her  own 
proper  tribute.  Pluck  off  one,  another  is  there  unfailingly,  of 
gold  as  pure,  a  twig  burgeoning  with  as  fine  an  ore.  Let  then 
your  eye  be  keen  to  explore  it,  your  hand  quick  to  pluck  it, 
when  duly  found  ;  for  it  will  follow  the  touch  with  willing- 
ness and  ease,  if  you  have  a  call  from  Fate  ;  if  not,  no 
strength  of  yours  will  overcome  it,  no  force  of  steel  tear  it 
away." 

And,  therefore,  may  it  not  be,  even  as  of  old,  that  this 
man,  who  assuredly  was  a  Hero,  gathered  of  the  Golden 
Bough,  and,  deathless,  passed  beyond  ? 

217 


XVII 

IN    TOUCH    WITH   THEIR   EXCELLENCIES 

Vicissitudes  of  Diplomacy.  Social  Eccentricities  of  Thrift.  London's  In- 
debtedness to  American  Women.  A  Dinner  Party  to  meet  Lord  Sackville 
and  Browning.  The  Poet  as  a  Rescuer.  Sir  Augustus  Harris  lends  me  a  Chair. 
A  Diplomat  under  a  Pew.  Sir  Henry  Dering's  Adventure  in  the  Abbey.  The 
French  Ambassador's  Narrow  Escape.  A  Comic  Mistake  at  an  Embassy. 
An  Honest  Man  who  was  yet  not  "  Honourable."  A  Duke's  Witticism. 
Foreign  Office  Receptions.  A  Bewildering  Collection  of  Orders.  Lord 
Galloway's  Marvellous  Memory.  Sir  Arthur  Herbert  and  his  Early  Days. 
K.C.M.G. — "  Kindly  Call  Me  George."  Lord  Newton  at  Christ  Church. 
Religion  as  a  Ladder.  The  late  Lord  Kinnaird  as  Diplomatist,  Philanthropist 
and  Banker.  "  The  Wholly  Worldlies  and  the  Worldly  Holies."  A  Story  of 
Surreptitious  Twins.  Count  Mensdorff,  the  last  Austrian  Ambassador  :  Will 
there  ever  be  another  ?  How  to  tell  a  Lie  whilst  speaking  the  Truth.  The 
Belgian  Minister — "And  where  do  you  Preach,  Sir?"  Lady  Ashbourne's 
Anger.  Dear  Lord  Li :  Celestial  Instance  of  Eastern  Evolution. 

AFTER  the  war  I  spent  some  months  in  the  Central 
Empires.  When,  previous  to  leaving  London,  I 
met  the  representatives  of  Austria,  Germany,  and  other 
inimical  countries,  accredited  to  the  Court  of  St.  James, 
the  thought  passed  through  my  mind :  What  super- 
human moral  courage  (or  effrontery)  must  needs  be  in 
the  man  who  represents  a  late  enemy  in  the  metropolis 
of  a  victorious  Empire.  He  cannot  stay  away  from 
functions,  as  can  you  and  I,  should  we  feel  ourselves  de 
trop.  He  is  forced  to  put  in  an  appearance  however 
certain  he  may  be  of  a  frozen  reception. 

The  great  diplomatists  that  have  been  accredited  from 
time  to  time  to  the  Court  of  St.  James  have  been  a  great 
feature  and  in  both  senses  a  colouring  of  London  society. 

218 


In  Touch  with  Their  Excellencies 

Their  distinctive  Stars  and  Orders  at  great  functions,  the 
charm  of  their  manner,  and  the  general  interest  they 
inspired  were  a  definite  addition  to  the  dramatic  make-up 
of  social  life.  That  is  largely  past.  It  will  take  years 
to  right  it.  Let  us  hark  back  to  earlier  days  when  animosity 
or  distrust  were  rare  in  the  meeting  of  men  accredited 
to  our  Court. 

Those  who  remember  the  closing  decade  of  the  Victorian 
era  will  recollect  that  kindly  American  personality,  Mrs. 
Bloomfield  Moore.  She  was  accounted  wealthy,  and  had 
a  charming  house  in  Great  Stanhope  Street,  Mayfair,  where 
she  entertained  considerably,  and  one  was  always  sure  of 
meeting  interesting  people  at  her  hospitable  board.  A 
woman  of  considerable  generosity,  and  artistic  proclivities, 
she  had  several  small  eccentricities  of  thrift  most  incongruous 
to  her  character  and  her  wealth.  It  was.  habitual  to  her, 
for  instance,  to  ask  five  people  to  an  opera  box  which  held 
but  four,  and  this  though  well  she  knew  that  Sir  Augustus 
Harris  would  permit  of  no  extra  chair  being  placed  therein. 

One  day  I  received  a  cordial  letter  from  the  lady 
asking  me  to  dinner  to  meet  Lord  Sackville,  then  our  repre- 
sentative at  Washington,  his  beautiful  daughter,  and  Robert 
Browning,  the  poet,  the  party  afterwards  to  proceed  to  the 
opera  with  Adelina  Patti  in  Faust.  You  may  well  believe  me 
that  I  sent  a  ready  acceptance.  Americans  were  always  dear 
to  me,  for  from  my  first  of  social  days  I  had  recognized 
my  indebtedness  to  the  many  bright  vivacious  cosmopolitan 
ladies  who  had  illumined  the  dullness  of  our  insular  dinners. 
To  meet  our  Ambassador  would  be  to  find  oneself  in  touch 
with  the  nursery  of  much  brilliance,  and  to  sit  with  Brown- 
ing would  be  a  remembrance  and  perhaps  a  revelation. 
This  writer  had  long  known  the  poet  and  owed  much  to  his 
help  and  generous  sympathy. 

219 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

The  eventful  dinner  duly  took  place.  Our  hostess,  with 
her  habitual  Transatlantic  charm,  made  us  thoroughly  at 
home.  The  party  was  too  small  to  be  ceremonious  and  she 
made  us  all  feel  at  our  best,  which,  believe  me,  is  the  whole 
art  of  entertaining.  Our  English  way  as  often  as  not 
consists  in  the  hostess  making  herself  feel  at  best.  His 
Excellency,  whom  I  had  not  previously  met,  proved  himself 
to  be  that  distinctive  style  of  English  gentleman  whom  no 
Foreign  State  succeeds  in  reproducing,  but  otherwise  he 
showed  no  marked  individuality.  His  daughter,  the  present 
Lady  Sackville,  was  in  the  gleam  and  glamour  of  Andalusian 
beauty  ;  a  type  of  girlhood  gladdening  to  look  upon.  As 
for  Robert  Browning,  he  was  as  usual  much  more  the 
successful  diner-out  than  the  poet,  and  there  was  pro- 
nounced lucidity  in  all  he  said.  He  evidently  kept  his 
jewels  for  home  wear,  for  I  can  recall  nothing  of  prominence 
in  any  word  that  he  uttered,  a  thing  impossible  had  one 
spent  the  same  time  with  Gladstone  or  with  Swinburne. 
But  he  was  so  kindly,  with  never  a  trace  of  vanity  or  egotism, 
and  seemed  so  to  enjoy  himself  that  one  was  forced  to  bear 
him  company.  It  may  be  well  to  add  that  at  that  time 
this  writer  had  not  reached  his  thirtieth  year,  so  you  can 
well  imagine  the  kindliness  of  those  men,  then  playing  an 
important  part  in  life,  to  one  but  barely  on  life's  threshold. 

We  had  a  brief  oasis  of  anecdote  after  the  ladies  withdrew, 
and  then  Browning,  drawing  me  aside,  said  :  "  Mrs.  Bloom- 
field  Moore  is  taking  Sackville  and  his  daughter  with  her 
in  her  carriage  :  will  you  come  with  me  in  my  hansom, 
and  I  think  it  will  be  well  to  get  off  before  they  do."  We 
did  so,  and  awaited  their  arrival  in  the  vestibule.  When 
they  came,  I,  as  naturally  last  in  precedence,  followed  at  the 
tail  end  of  that  little  procession  that  mounted  the  staircase 
en  route  for  the  opera  box.  When  we  met  the  upstairs 

220 


In  Touch  with  Their  Excellencies 

official,  he  let  the  four  others  pass  but  collared  me,  saying 
that  there  were  only  four  chairs  in  the  box.  I  did  all  that 
man  could,  but  he  was  a  beast  and  would  not  let  me  pass. 
I  knew  Gus  Harris  personally,  so  scribbled  a  line  on  my 
card  and  sent  it  down  to  him,  standing  there  meanwhile 
whilst  all  the  elect  passed  by.  Presently  I  was  conscious 
of  a  great  clamour  down  the  passage,  and  I  could  hear  sounds 
of  "  Where  is  he  ?  "  and  out  came  Sackville  and  Browning 
to  know  what  had  become  of  me.  I  told  them  about  our 
hostess's  evidence  of  thrift,  and  then  Browning  said  a 
thing  that  to  my  dying  day  I  shall  never  forget  as  one  of 
the  kindest  things  a  great  man  ever  said  :  "  But,  see  here," 
he  exclaimed,  "  why  should  you  stay  here  more  than  I  ?  " 
"  Let's  toss  up,"  was  the  thoroughly  English  solution  of  his 
Excellency.  At  this  critical  moment,  Heaven  be  praised ! 
there  came  a  message  from  Sir  Augustus  telling  me  that 
certainly  I  was  to  have  a  chair,  so  the  three  of  us  wended 
boxward  followed  by  an  attendant  with  the  needful,  and 
Mrs.  Moore  simulated  surprise  at  the  cause  of  our  absence 
Surely  the  consideration  of  those  two  men,  one  great  in 
himself,  the  other  great  in  his  position,  is  something  worth 
adding  to  one's  remembrances. 

At  the  time  of  King  Edward's  Coronation  my  wife  and 
I  were  at  an  afternoon  party  in  Eaton  Square.  There  were 
many  prominent  people  present,  and  amongst  others  Sir 
Henry  Dering,  at  that  time  our  representative  in  Brazil. 
He  was  a  charming  personality,  travelled,  cultured,  and 
cosmopolitan.  In  addition  to  what  he  was  in  himself,  he 
was  of  added  interest  to  me  personally  as  head  of  the  Derings, 
one  of  the  few  pure-bred  Saxon  families  who  had  retained 
their  county  prominence  from  days  long  anterior  to  the 
Conquest.  The  Dering  Baronets  of  Surrendon-Dering 
trace  back  to  the  year  880.  It  says  much  for  the  vitality 

221 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

of  a  race  that  even  that  eleventh  century  invasion  of  the 
Normans  could  not  obliterate  or  repress  their  vigorous 
continuance.  Sir  Henry  and  I  talked  a  good  deal  by  a 
side  tea-table.  After  a  while  he  said  :  "  No  diplomat 
dead  or  alive  ever  had  the  experience  I  have  just  had." 
He  then  told  me  that  he  had  been  wandering  round  the 
Abbey  looking  for  some  family  tablet,  when  suddenly  he 
was  conscious  that  they  were  going  to  begin  a  rehearsal  of 
the  Coronation.  It  will  never  do,  he  thought,  for  the 
King's  representative  to  be  turned  out  of  the  Abbey  by  the 
police.  "  I  was  not  going  to  take  that  position,"  he  said. 
"  It  would  have  been  much  better  if  I  had,  for  what  do 
you  think  I  stupidly  did  ?  I  hid  myself  in  a  pew,  so  that 
the  attendants  should  not  see  me.  And  there  I  actually 
saw  the  whole  show.  Old  Ponsonby-Fane  did  the  King, 
and  I  can  tell  you  it  was  as  good  as  a  play,  and  it  is  not 
every  diplomat  that  has  a  box  which  is  really  a  pew ;  but 
only  fancy  the  headlines  in  the  evening  papers  if  I  had  been 
discovered  and  ejected  !  "  It  was  common  knowledge  that 
every  possible  precaution  had  been  taken  to  keep  this 
rehearsal  secret  and  prevent  any  account  of  it  appearing 
in  the  Press. 

I  recall  what  might  have  been  a  most  disagreeable 
episode.  It  stands  to  reason  that  when  representatives  of 
Foreign  Sovereigns  or  States  are  kind  enough  to  accept 
your  invitation  (and  it  is  the  object  of  every  true  blue 
hostess  to  subpoena  the  Embassies),  that  these  exalted  people 
anticipate  your  tact  that  they  do  not  encounter  anyone 
at  variance  with  or  discredited  by  their  respective  countries. 
This  writer  recollects  a  particularly  brilliant  season  in  the 
eighties.  The  French  Ambassador  was  a  remarkably  popular 
personage.  At  the  same  time  General  Boulanger  was  giving 
his  government  a  good  deal  of  trouble,  and  took  the 

222 


In  Touch  with  Their  Excellencies 

opportunity  to  visit  London,  where  he  was  lionized  by  a 
small  section  of  the  community.  My  brother's  houseboat, 
the  Iris,  was  moored  off  Henley  for  the  regatta,  and  for  this 
function  the  French  Ambassador  accepted  my  invitation,  and 
was  on  the  upper  deck  after  luncheon,  when  whom  should 
I  see  in  the  distance  through  my  field-glasses  but  Colonel 
Hughes-Hallett,  late  M.P.  for  Rochester,  and  General 
Boulanger.  They  were  in  a  small  rowing-boat,  and  seemed 
making  for  the  Iris.  I  forthwith  told  his  Excellency  that 
I  had  a  particular  liqueur  which  I  should  like  him  to  sample, 
and  it  awaited  him  in  the  tent  ashore.  I  got  him  below, 
and  towed  him  to  Lady  Seymour,  asking  her  to  keep  him 
engaged  for  a  bit.  I  told  the  servants  to  place  the  liqueur 
in  the  little  tent  across  the  gangway,  and  as  I  led  my  guest 
shoreward  from  the  barge  the  General  was  boarding  the 
Iris  from  the  river.  I  believe  that,  like  flies,  some  diplomats 
have  eyes  at  the  back  of  the  head.  Over  our  liqueur  in  the 
tent  the  ambassador  said  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  :  "  You 
did  that  very  well ;  it  is  seldom  that  our  French  poets 
have  savoir-faire."  The  kindly  compliment  was  well 
worth  the  anxiety  it  cost. 

Another  remembrance  of  the  French  Embassy.  In 
London  at  that  time  there  was  a  certain  member  of  the 
Leveson-Gower  family  whose  father  was  an  Honourable, 
but  he  himself  was  not  entitled  to  the  designation.  If 
I  am  fortunate  enough  to  have  foreign  readers,  I  may  say 
that  whilst  in  America  or  the  Dominions  the  word  Honour- 
able prefixed  to  a  name  may  denote  a  member  of  Congress 
or  Senate,  or  even  some  official  position,  in  England  it 
almost  always  means  that  the  holder  of  it  is  a  son  of 
baron,  viscount,  or  earl,  and  when  that  holder  is  a  lady 
she  may  possibly  be  a  Maid  of  Honour  with  precedence 
next  to  that  of  a  baron's  daughter,  if  not  the  daughter  of  a 

223 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

baroness  or  a  viscount.  Now,  this  particular  Mr.  Leveson- 
Gower,  not  being  the  son  of  a  peer,  was  ostensibly  not 
entitled  to  the  prefix,  and  yet,  for  some  reason  I  never 
could  fathom,  he  was  very  frequently  accorded  it  on 
the  envelope.  Lord  Byron  was  one  day  at  the  French 
Embassy,  and  was  talking  with  some  of  the  attaches,  one 
of  whom  was  getting  out  invitations  for  a  forthcoming 
function.  One  of  the  cards  duly  enveloped  and  addressed 
lay  on  the  table.  Byron,  looking  at  it,  exclaimed  :  "  Don't 
send  that ;  he's  not  Honourable."  Towards  the  end 
of  the  season  the  intended  recipient  wrote  to  know  why 
his  name  had  been  omitted  in  all  of  that  season's  festivities 
at  Albert  Gate.  The  attache,  although  he  knew  that  the 
would-be  guest,  not  being  honourable  as  he  had  been  told, 
was  plainly  a  person  better  omitted,  felt  in  so  delicate  a 
matter,  since  write  he  must,  that  the  letter  had  better  be 
drafted  by  the  person  who  warned  him.  He  therefore 
wrote  to  Byron,  saying  :  "  You  know  that  gentleman  about 
whose  honour  you  advised  us  has  been  asking  for  a  reason 
why  he  is  no  longer  invited,  and  we  should  very  much  like 
to  know  what  we  should  say,  and  what  he  has  done  that 
he  is  no  longer  a  man  of  honour."  This  humorous  matter 
was  very  speedily  cleared  up,  and  the  honourable  gentleman, 
who  yet  was  not  an  Honourable,  was  restored  to  his  previous 
position  on  the  Embassy  List. 

It  would  not  do  to  leave  my  recollections  of  Albert  Gate 
without  recording  the  witticism  of  a  well-known  French 
duke  of  the  ancien  regime.  Someone  mentioned  in  his 
hearing  the  name  of  the  then  Ambassador  and  Ambassadress 
from  the  French  Republic,  M.  and  Mme.  Waddington. 
The  Duke  was  heard  to  mutter  under  his  breath  :  "  Beau- 
coup  de  Wadding,  mais  peu  de  ton" 

The  Foreign  Office  receptions,  especially  in  the  days  of 

224 


In  Touch  with  Their  Excellencies 

Lord  Beaconsfield  and  Lord  Salisbury,  were  brilliant 
functions.  As  is  natural,  the  distinguished  people  entitled 
to  Orders  wore  them,  and  the  coveted  Garter  was  a  deep 
and  intrinsic  background  to  the  various  crimsons,  yellows, 
azures  and  emeralds  of  multitudinous  Foreign  decorations. 
I  had  a  great  friend  whose  memory  on  such  matters  was 
little  short  of  miraculous.  I  have  seen  the  late  Lord 
Galloway  sit  down  on  the  day  following  a  reception  at  the 
Foreign  Office  and,  without  notes  of  any  kind,  write  an 
article  which  included  the  names  and  colours  of  the  wide 
variety  of  Orders  worn  by  the  different  diplomatists  present, 
including  Chinese,  Japanese,  Siamese  and  all  the  lesser 
Eastern  States  and  Anglo-Indians  present,  and  the  four  or 
five  different  Orders  of  Knighthood  of  our  Indian  Empire. 
When  one  adds  to  this,  that  Lord  Galloway  was  never 
forgetful  of  the  ladies  and  was  equally  good  at  recording 
their  dresses,  trimmings,  colourings,  necklaces  and  par- 
ticular shape  of  tiara  affected  by  all  best  worth  knowing  in 
the  womanhood  of  London  Society,  it  was  a  great  mental 
achievement.  This  I  have  always  reckoned  to  be  a  very 
marvellous  feat  of  memory  equalled  only  by  those  of  Colonel 
Hughes -Hallett  or  W.  W.  Story.  The  memory  of  both 
these  men  was  remarkable.  Story  could  enforce  his  opinion 
by  quoting  half  a  page  of  Milton,  Dryden,  Tennyson,  or 
Pope,  and  he  occasionally  bewildered  you  by  clinching  an 
argument  from  a  classic  in  the  original ;  whilst  there  was 
not  much  of  Shakespeare  that  Hallett  did  not  know.  Lord 
Galloway  utilized  his  wonderful  memory  by  writing  for 
the  "  London  Day  by  Day  "  column  of  the  Daily  Telegraph. 
He  was  also  a  contributor  to  the  World  when  that  paper  was 
written  by  gentlemen,  and  was  a  power  in  the  social  land. 
Fallen  from  its  high  estate  (for  it  is  some  years  since  the 
disappearance  of  that  popular  journa]),  it  is  an  unmistak- 

225  15 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

able  loss  to  those  who  love  good  reading  and  the  knowledge 
and  whereabouts  of  notabilities.  There  is  room  for  a 
good  paper  of  this  sort  in  the  London  life  of  to-day,  but 
where  are  now  the  men  with  that  junction  of  brain  and 
birth  which  is  an  essential  of  such  writing  ? 

In  Undergraduate  days  at  Christ  Church,  Oxford,  I 
may  be  said  to  have  lived  all  but  in  the  atmosphere  of 
budding  diplomacy.  For  a  couple  of  years  there  was  but 
the  staircase  landing  between  my  rooms  in  Peckwater  Quad 
and  those  of  Sir  Arthur  Herbert.  Humbly,  and  at  a  dis- 
tance, I  always  considered  him  a  man  of  mark.  He  had  the 
reserve  of  ya  great  man  and  the  tact  and  courtesy  of  what  is 
best  in  public  life.  This  remembrance  of  him  illustrates 
the  peculiarities  of  English  education,  and  the  reserve 
with  which  even  at  earliest  at  Eton  and  afterwards  at 
Oxford  men  treat  each  other  pending  the  familiarities  of 
friendship.  Simply  because  he  was  a  trifle  senior  to  myself 
and  somewhat  of  a  recluse  in  his  habits,  we  would  pass  each 
other  dozens  of  times  a  week,  sometimes  on  the  landing 
simultaneously  shouting  for  our  scout,  and  otherwise 
encountering  each  other,  without  so  much  as  a  "  Good- 
morning  "  between  us.  This  state  of  things  continued 
until  Herbert's  departure  for  the  successful  diplomatic 
career  which  awaited  him,  and  it  was  only  when  we  met 
constantly  in  the  social  world  of  London  that  he  came  up 
to  me  with  extended  hand,  saying,  "  Don't  you  think  this 
has  gone  on  long  enough  ?  We  ought  to  know  each  other 
by  this  time."  Sir  Arthur  has  been  decorated  with  the 
Grand  Cross  of  St.  Michael  and  St.  George  for  his  diplo- 
matic work,  especially  as  our  representative  in  Norway 
duiing  the  not  altogether  easy  times  following  that 
country's  severance  from  Sweden.  American  readers  will 

remember  him  at  Washington. 

226 


In  Touch  with  Their  Excellencies 

Alluding  to  the  K.C.M.G.  and  the  ultimate  G.C.M.G. 
with  which  Sir  Arthur  was  honoured,  I  cannot  avoid  men- 
tioning a  witticism  of  the  late  Sir  George  Reid,  which  I 
have  always  thought  one  of  the  smartest  things  ever  said  by 
that  ready  wit.  It  does  not  so  much  matter  whether  some 
of  you  have  already  heard  it — it  will  bear  repeating.  Sir 
George  was  in  Australia  when  he  was  created  a  K.C.M.G., 
and  the  majority  of  Australians  were  at  their  wits'  end  to 
know  what  the  initials  meant.  At  last  someone  asked  the 
recipient,  who,  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  replied, 
"  Oh,  the  K.C.M.G.  means  Kindly  Call  Me  George !  " 
This  witticism  was  the  more  telling  inasmuch  as  the  dis- 
tinguished Mr.  Reid  was  widely  known  by  that  designa- 
tion, and  few  were  cognisant  of  his  Christian  name. 

The  outside  public  unconnected  with  ribbons  and 
decorations  are  not  aware  of  the  advantage  to  the  recipient 
by  a  promotion  from  a  Knight  Commandership  to  a  Grand 
Cross.  The  former  entitles  the  holder  to  a  star  or  emblem 
dependent  on  a  ribbon  with  the  colours  of  the  Order  and 
worn  round  the  collar  showing  under  the  tie.  But  the 
Grand  Cross  entitles  the  holder  to  wear  the  broad  ribbon 
of  the  Order  across  that  portion  of  the  shirt  which  other- 
wise is  visible.  I  asked  Sir  Richard  Temple  once  if  he  did 
not  find  his  Grand  Crosses  a  great  saving  in  shirts  !  The 
Grand  Cross  of  the  Bath  entitles  the  holder  to  supporters 
to  his  family  arms,  and  all  Orders  give  the  recipients  of  a 
Grand  Cross  some  magnificent  mantle  or  other  in  which 
the  colours  of  the  Order  are  usually  blended.  The  mantle, 
if  the  recipient  be  a  man  of  commanding  height  and  car- 
riage, renders  him  an  imposing  spectacle  on  Chapter  Days. 

The  portrait  which  I  give  elsewhere  of  Lord  Sydenham 
of  Coombe  depicts  him  wearing  the  mantle  of  the  Grand 
Cross  of  Saint  Michael  and  Saint  George.  I  never  could 

227  15* 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

understand  why  King  Edward  made  such  a  point  as  to 
the  angle  at  which  the  Ribbon  should  be  worn.  Previous 
to  his  finding  on  the  subject  it  depended  across  the  shirt 
from  a  start  made  close  to  the  neck.  His  late  Majesty, 
however,  laid  down  that  it  should  start  its  descent  as  from 
the  shoulder,  which  indeed  looks  well  enough  when  the 
Ribbon  is  worn  over  a  uniform,  but  worn  with  an  evening 
dress  coat  seems  not  nearly  so  neat.  King  Edward  made 
a  great  point  of  this,  and  was  instantly  observant  of  the 
fact  if  worn  in  the  old  way. 

Another  budding  diplomatist  at  Christ  Church  in  my 
time  was  the  present  Lord  Newton,  celebrated  even  then 
for  the  humorist  twist  with  which  he  could  contort 
even  a  grave  subject.  Known  then  as  Tom  Legh,  he 
appropriately  had  beautiful  old-world  quarters  in  Tom 
Quad,  and  many  a  time  at  his  windows  we  have  endeavoured 
to  encompass  the  impossible  by  finding  the  large  arena  of 
the  Quadrangle  vacant  of  humanity.  It  is  said  that  the 
Quadrangle  has  never  been  seen  empty.  Often  and  often 
we  were  very  near  a  success.  The  last  man  would  be  just 
disappearing  through  the  splendid  gateway  under  Tom 
Tower  when  the  venerable  Dr.  Pusey  would  come  out  of 
his  doorway,  or  the  lovable  Dr.  King,  afterwards  Bishop 
of  Lincoln  ;  and  often  with  rapid  strides  my  tutor,  the 
brilliant  author  of  Alice  in  Wonderland.  Lord  Newton 
was  known  in  those  days  as  Red  Legh,  to  differentiate  him 
from  Charlie  Legh  of  Adlington,  whose  raven  locks  caused 
him  to  be  known  as  Black  Legh.  In  contradistinction  to 
the  wit  of  Red  Legh,  Black  Legh  was  one  of  the  most 
humorous  men  this  writer  ever  met,  and  beloved  by  all 
who  knew  him. 

Although  the  late  Lord  Kinnaird  was  never  an  Am- 
bassador or  even  Minister,  he  was  long  enough  in   the 

228 


In  Touch  with  Their  Excellencies 

Diplomatic  Service  to  qualify  him  for  the  varied  and  some- 
times conflicting  roles  of  partner  in  a  great  Banking  House, 
Member  of  Parliament  (before  he  succeeded  to  the  peerage), 
and  stand-by  of  all  religious  beliefs,  home  and  foreign, 
that  were  anti-ritualistic.  His  training  in  the  Diplomatic 
Service  must  have  been  of  daily  use  to  him,  for  they  are 
not  few  who  would  made  a  ladder  of  religion  to  elevate 
themselves  into  social  or  financial  security. 

The  At  Homes,  given  by  Lord  and  Lady  Kinnaird 
in  their  massive  old-world  house  over  the  Bank  in  Pall 
Mall  East,  were  prominent  features  in  the  social  world. 
Numbers  of  the  elect  who  would  not  drink  champagne  at 
a  ball  were  not  averse  to  doing  so  when  the  supper  was 
savoured  by  the  presence  of  a  Bishop.  This  sort  of  thing 
originated  Lawrence  Oliphant's  witticism,  "  The  wholly 
worldlies  and  the  worldly  holies." 

About  a  century  previous  the  Kinnairds  had  figured 
very  differently  in  the  religious  and  social  world.  The 
Lord  and  Lady  Kinnaird  of  the  day  being  childless,  their 
desire  for  offspring  was  not  lessened  by  their  dislike  of 
the  heir.  At  this  juncture  Scotland  was  animated  by 
the  announcement  that  her  Ladyship  had  given  birth  to 
twins,  both  of  them  boys.  The  horizon  of  the  heir  looked 
gloomy.  He  was  apprehensive,  not  to  say  suspicious.  He 
might  have  stood  one  baby,  but  a  second  seemed  coming 
it  a  little  too  dramatic.  He  commenced  proceedings  in 
Edinburgh  and  the  case  excited  frantic  interest,  especially 
as  it  transpired  in  evidence  that  the  gardener's  wife  at  Rossie 
Priory  had  somewhere  about  the  same  time  increased  her 
family,  and  it  was  a  coincidence  that  she  also  had  twins. 

Just  as  the  case  was  nearing  its  close,  and  seemed  going 
against  Lady  Kinnaird,  a  messenger  arrived  who  had  ridden 
post  haste  from  Perthshire  and  announced  to  the  Court 

229 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

that  there  was  no  need  for  further  proceedings  as  both  twins 
were  dead.  The  case  was  consequently  finished  without  a 
verdict.  It  has  always  struck  me  as  strange  that  both  of 
the  poor  little  babies  should  have  died  simultaneously. 

As  a  boy  of  fifteen  and  for  many  years  after  I  attended 
those  parties  of  Lady  Kinnaird's,  given  in  those  very  self- 
same rooms  where  Byron  the  Poet  used  often  to  come  to 
chat  with  his  friend  Douglas  Kinnaird.  It  was  there 
that  he  sometimes  stayed,  and  in  them  some  of  the 
Hebrew  melodies  were  written.  I  once  in  these  very 
rooms  quoted  a  line  from  those  immortal  melodies  which 
perhaps  might  have  been  written  in  the  very  scene  in 
which  we  were  centred,  then  graced  by  a  considerable 
collection  of  well-bred  London  listening  to  a  Christianized 
barbarian  relating  his  experience  of  the  "  Work."  His 
gestures,  his  garb,  his  vehemence  and  impetuosity  seemed 
to  recall  the  line, 

"  The  Assyrian  came  down  like  a  wolf  on  the  fold." 

The  late  Lord  Kinnaird  was  one  of  the  kindliest  and 
most  cheery  of  notabilities  I  have  ever  met.  He  could 
never  do  enough  for  those  under  his  roof,  and  he  gave  you 
the  impression  of  a  man  whose  one  aim  was  the  happiness 
of  his  fellows.  His  mantle  has  well  fallen  on  his  son,  the 
present  peer,  and  it  seems  difficult  to  associate  the  suavity 
of  his  nature  with  the  Thistle  which  so  worthily  has  been 
bestowed  upon  him  by  the  King. 

Perhaps  the  most  popular  of  Foreign  Representatives 
with  our  own  Royalties  were  Count  Mensdorff,  the  Austrian 
Ambassador,  and  the  Marquis  de  Several,  for  many  years 
Portuguese  Minister,  who,  after  the  fall  of  his  Royal  Master, 
elected  to  remain  amongst  us  in  an  unofficial  capacity. 
I  was  privileged  once  to  have  tea  the-a-the  with  Count 
Mensdorff  in  his  fine  house  in  Belgrave  Square  and  had 

230 


In  Touch  with  Their  Excellencies 

opportunities  to  examine  and  admire  his  Excellency's 
marvellous  collection  of  autographed  etchings  and  photo- 
graphs of  Royalties.  Through  the  Duchess  of  Kent's 
(mother  of  Queen  Victoria)  first  marriage,  the  Count  was 
related  to  King  Edward,  and  was  much  esteemed  by  him 
and  by  all  likely  to  admire  a  sportsman  and  a  gentleman. 
But  when  this  is  admitted  everything  is  said.  The  days  are 
past  for  anything  especially  advantageous  in  individualities 
exceptionally  ornate.  The  Count  had  little  depth,  and  I 
may  add,  less  width.  Born  of  a  princely  family,  the  present 
head  of  which  is  his  nephew  Prince  Dietrichstein,  he  is 
by  the  very  nature  of  his  surroundings  precluded  by 
education,  taste  and  inherent  instinct  from  the  capacity 
which  enjoys  that  larger  outlook  necessary  to  the  politics 
of  to-day.  It  is  less  his  fault  than  his  privation.  A 
bachelor  himself,  he  belongs  to  a  Teutonic  Order  for  assist- 
ing the  wounded.  This  Order  insists  on  celibacy,  except 
in  such  cases,  nowadays  numerous,  where  a  great  family  is 
in  need  of  an  heir.  A  friend  of  this  writer,  just  returned 
from  Austria,  tells  me  that  Count  Mensdorff  takes  life 
now  very  seriously,  a  fact  which  will  be  much  regretted 
by  the  many  friends  whom  he  left  in  England.  He  is 
hopeful  of  restoring  the  equilibrium  of  Europe  by  means 
of  the  League  of  Nations,  but  within  all  these  energies 
brought  to  bear  upon  this  anticipated  salvation,  his  heart 
returns  to  England,  which  will  ever  remain  his  spiritual 
homestead. 

This  writer  had  many  an  interesting  talk  with  Count 
Hatzfeldt,  especially  in  those  darkened  days  when  his 
Excellency  was  compelled  to  go  about  in  a  bathchair.  I 
used  often  to  walk  alongside  or  sit  beside  him  in  some 
quiet  spot.  He  told  me  that  the  duties  of  diplomats  were 
largely  inconvenienced,  if  not  harassed,  by  the  ignorance 

231 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

of  obstreperous  women.  In  the  United  States  the  art 
of  entertaining  (for  in  truth  it  is  an  art  and  few  there  be 
that  master  it)  is  infinitely  easier  than  it  is  with  us.  In 
America,  it  seems  that  it  lies  mainly  in  the  discretion  of 
the  hostess  where  she  places  her  guests  and  the  order  in 
which  they  enter  the  dining-room.  The  English  hostess 
has  no  such  pleasurable  choice  ;  as  likely  as  not,  and  indeed 
very  frequently  the  case,  the  unfortunate  host  has  the  two 
dullest  old  derelicts  right  and  left,  simply  because  the  one 
happens  to  be  a  Duchess  and  the  other  a  Marchioness.  So 
near,  and  yet  so  far,  his  envious  eyes  encounter  those  of 
the  beauty  of  the  season,  but  she  is  merely  an  Honourable 
and  perhaps  not  that,  and  so  there  is  no  chance  for  him 
that  day.  Well,  supposing  that  the  hostess  has  an  Am- 
bassador for  her  guest.  The  latter,  as  representative  of 
Royalty,  would  take  precedence  of  all  titular  rank  in  this 
country,  and  he  would  sit  to  the  left  of  his  hostess,  who, 
as  likely  as  not,  may  be  an  extremely  stupid  woman.  Fail- 
ing that,  there  may  be  a  gauche  personage  of  exalted 
precedence  who  gives  his  Excellency  no  chance  on  the 
other  side.  One  or  other  of  these  ladies  are  almost  certain 
to  ply  him  with  questions  which  no  sane  woman  would 
dream  of  doing.  I  remember  once  in  the  eighties  when 
the  Eastern  question  was  very  much  alive  and  it  was  not 
unintelligent  to  be  a  "  bear  "  of  Russian  securities,  that 
an  exalted  personage  went  about  saying  that  there  would 
certainly  be  no  war  with  Russia.  Asked  why  she  held 
this  exceptional  belief,  she  said  :  "  Oh  !  I  sat  next  the 
Russian  Ambassador  at  dinner  the  other  night,  and  I  asked 
him,  and  he  told  me  there  was  not  the  slightest  chance  of 
it."  Can  you  imagine  any  woman  with  such  child-like 
confidence  as  to  expect  the  truth  under  such  circumstances  ? 
The  old  diplomatic  usage  in  the  case  of  such  questions 

232 


In  Touch  with  Their  Excellencies 

is,  that  the  onus  of  the  lie  passes  from  the  teller  to  the 
occasioner,  and,  if  there  is  any  penalty  hereafter  for  false- 
hood, the  lady  will  have  to  bear  it  and  not  the  Ambassador. 
It  is  often  that  I  have  wished  that  I  were  a  diplomatist. 
One  frequently  hears  it  said  that  such  and  such  a  particular 
possibility  will  not  take  place.  And  if  one  asks  the  reason 
for  that  certainty,  the  answer  as  often  as  not  is  that  some 
great  politician  or  diplomatist  stated  that  it  would,  "  and, 
you  know,  my  dear,  he  is  not  likely  to  tell  us  the  truth  ; 
more  likely  to  tell  us  the  opposite  !  " 

I  have  often  thought  of  a  fine  paradox  ;  namely,  how 
you  can  tell  the  truth  whilst  telling  a  lie,  or  tell  a  lie  whilst 
speaking  the  truth.  Supposing  I  am  talking  to  a  man 
and  instinctively  feel  that  he  is  prepared  not  to  believe  a 
word  I  say,  and  he  most  improperly  asks  me,  is  there  any 
truth  in  the  report  that  I  am  engaged  to  Miss  So-and-so, 
and  I  being  engaged  to  her  but  wishing  it  kept  a  secret, 
admit  the  fact,  I  am  telling  him  the  truth  inasmuch  as 
it  is  so,  but  I  am  telling  him  a  lie,  as  falsehood  consists 
in  the  intention  to  deceive,  and  I  certainly  have  deceived 
my  questioner  as  he  is  prepared  not  to  believe  a  word  I 
say  on  the  subject.  He  will  probably  go  about  the  town 
saying  that  there  is  no  truth  in  my  reported  engagement, 
as  I  would  never  have  admitted  it  had  it  been  true.  Or 
supposing  I  am  known  to  be  very  intimate  with  the  Chair- 
man of  a  Railway  Company  which  is  reported  to  be  on  the 
eve  of  amalgamating  with  another  Railway  Company,  but  as 
a  matter  of  fact  there  is  no  truth  in  this  idle  report.  Some- 
one knowing  my  intimacy  with  the  Chairman  asks  me  point 
blank  about  the  rumour,  and  I  can  see  that  he's  prepared 
to  receive  what  I  say  with  extreme  caution,  I  reply  that  the 
amalgamation  is  impossible,  which  is  the  exact  truth.  But 
it  is  a  lie,  inasmuch  as  again  I  have  succeeded  in  deceiving. 

233 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

Considering  how  highly  that  astute  man  Bismarck 
rated  the  diplomatic  talents  of  Hatzfeldt,  I  was  often 
surprised  at  the  apparent  openness  with  which  the  Count 
spoke  ;  but  for  all  his  openness,  though  occasionally  there 
was  ignorance,  there  was  never  indiscretion.  I  asked  him 
what  chance  a  man  would  have  who,  by  nature  loquacious, 
entered  the  Diplomatic  Service.  His  Excellency  con- 
sidered that  reticence  is  a  gift  that  with  rarity  is  acquired. 
He  thought,  however,  that  the  defect  might  possibly  be 
overcome.  I  asked  him  would  it  not  be  that  a  man  with 
a  turn  for  verbosity  would  have  to  use  half  his  brain  for 
the  closing  of  his  mouth,  whilst  the  other  half  would  be 
used  in  opening  it. 

In  my  career  I  have  encountered  many  Excellencies, 
but  few  have  given  me  such  an  impression  of  having  been 
born  with  discretion  as  does  Lord  Carnock.  No  little 
portion  of  his  talent  consists  in  the  suppression  of  the 
appearance  of  discretion.  He  is  a  most  open  man  with 
all  the  time  an  opulence  of  thought  within  him.  And 
think  of  it — the  vastness  of  what  he  has  to  repress.  There 
are  few  quarters  of  the  globe  wherein  he  has  not  repre- 
sented our  Empire.  He  was  but  lately  Permanent  Under- 
secretary for  Foreign  Affairs  during  the  most  epoch- 
making  years  of  our  time.  He  has  thus  within  him  intimate 
secretive  knowledge  at  first  hand  of  the  affairs  and  aspira- 
tions of  different  and  diverse  peoples,  and  yet  the  success 
and  brilliance  of  his  career  instance  how  impulse  can  be 
dominated  by  intellect.  There  is  considerable  power  in 
his  face,  but  the  prominent  characteristic  that  strikes  you 
is  the  kindliness  of  its  expression.  As  I  sat  with  him  the 
other  day  in  his  sanctum,  the  beams  of  the  early  Spring 
were  around  him,  bright  as  is  his  confidence  in  the  future 
of  the  Empire  he  has  so  consistently  sustained.  His  kind- 

234 


In  Touch  with  Their  Excellencies 

liness  would  little  care  for  the  mission  entrusted  to  his 
son  of  handing  the  passport  to  Lichnowsky.     The  Am- 
bassador was  in  his  bedroom  and  took  those  fatal  papers 
without   a   word.      Such   a   man    as    Lord   Carnock   fully 
exemplifies     Count    Hatzfeldt's    dictum    that    diplomacy 
at  its  best  is  an  inborn  gift,  natural  and  innate.     Of  a 
truth  his  is  the  trinity  of  kindliness,  dignity  and  discretion. 
It    was   often    I    met    that    popular    personage  Baron 
Wettnal,  Belgian  Minister  accredited  to  the  Court  of  St. 
James's.     "  Let  me  present  you  to  the  Belgian  Minister," 
was  said  to  a  rather  gauche  elderly  spinster.     She,  willing 
to  make  herself  agreeable,  said  with  gusto  :    "  And  where 
do  you  preach,  Sir  ?     I  must  come  and  hear  you."    With 
a  twinkle  in  his  eye  and  a  ready  command  of  idiom,  he 
replied,  "  I  hold  forth  at  Harrington  Road."     "  And  at 
what   time  ?  "   she  persisted.     "  Every   day   from   ten   to 
twelve."     "  Oh,"  said   the  spinster,   "  every  day  !     That 
must  be  a  terrible  labour  for  you,  a  fresh  sermon  every 
day."     "  No,"  said  the  Baron,   "  they  send  me  sermons 
from  Brussels,"  and  in  an  undertone  to  me,  "  some  of  them 
are  not  good  reading." 

Talking  of  Ministers,  you  cannot  well  beat  this  as  an 
instance  of  unconscious  Irish  wit.  Lady  Ashbourne,  wife 
of  the  Lord  Chancellor  of  Ireland,  was  proceeding  in 
her  carriage  to  a  Viceregal  Drawing  Room  at  Dublin  Castle, 
when  she  was  stopped  by  a  policeman.  "  But  I  have  the 
entree"  she  angrily  said  to  the  man,  "  you  must  let  me 
pass,  I  am  the  wife  of  a  Cabinet  Minister." 

"  Endeed,  mum,  I  couldn't  let  you  pass,  not  even  if 
you  was  the  wife  of  a  Presbyterian  Minister." 

Priceless  recollections  remain  with  me  of  many  an  un- 
forgettable talk  with  that  great  Celestial  who,  previous  to 
the  war,  so  eminently  represented  China  at  the  Court  of 

235 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

St.  James's.  His  wonderful  features  and  their  habitual 
expression  were  a  compound  of  dignity,  courtesy  and  in- 
tellect. Lord  Li  was  an  engrossing  figure  in  his  gorgeous 
robes,  worn  not  without  considerable  dignity  notwith- 
standing much  liberality  in  girth.  A  master  of  our 
language  even  to  its  idiom,  he  was  also  a  master  of  conjec- 
ture in  the  by-ways  of  speculative  thought.  With  him 
there  was  just  as  much  of  the  distinction  and  distinctive- 
ness  of  caste  as  there  assuredly  is  in  the  case  of  Count 
Mensdorff,  but  there  was  also  that  breadth  of  brain  which 
grasped  the  probabilities  of  Progress,  and  was  not  alto- 
gether unsympathetic  with  its  aspirations.  What  this 
writer  loved  in  him  was  his  encouragement  of  all  lesser 
intellect.  That,  you  never  get  in  the  Starchlings  of  the 
Court.  Lord  Li's  face  would  beam  with  intellectual 
benevolence  as  one  propounded  to  him  some  embryo  idea 
of  one's  own,  and  his  greater  mentality  lit  it  into  logical 
sequence.  It  was  to  this  writer  oftentimes  a  wonder, 
after  the  frivol  of  a  usual  dinner  party,  to  find  himself,  on 
the  departure  of  the  intervening  lady,  side  by  side  with  this 
instance  of  Eastern  evolution.  To  look  upon  him  he  was 
strikingly  of  the  past  ;  to  listen  to  him,  he  was  absorbingly 
of  the  moment.  In  the  heart  that  beat  beneath  those 
coloured  robes  there  blent  and  mingled  the  aspirations  of 
the  ages.  And  now,  alas !  there  is  no  Celestial  Embassy 
in  London,  and  even  were  such  re-established  it  is  doubtful 
whether  the  millions  of  Cathay  could  furnish  us  with 
another  Lord  Li.  Long  may  he  hibernate  amid  his  lotus- 
gardens,  photographs  of  which,  with  little  parcels  of  scented 
tea,  he  continually  sends,  as  tokens  of  his  remembrance, 
to  the  many  friends  he  left  when  alas !  he  departed.  "  Que 
les  petits  cadeaux  entretiennent  Pamitit" 

236 


XVIII 

A   VICEROY    IN    SLIPPERS 

And  Sundry  Others 

A  Small  Boy  has  Tea  with  the  Great  Lord  Lawrence.  I  am  told  about  him  as  we 
cross  the  Park.  Timorous  Expectations  of  Pomp  and  Parade.  The  "  Saviour 
of  India  "  in  Slippers.  Patted  on  the  Head  by  a  Viceroy  and  a  Lord  Chan- 
cellor. Infantile  Recollections  of  the  First  Lord  Brougham.  Scattered 
Oranges — Eighteen  a  Penny.  Dr.  Bradley,  late  Dean  of  Westminster.  A 
Terror  of  a  Taskmaster.  I  avoid  University  College,  of  which  he  was  Head. 
Lord  Lawrence's  Belief  in  Bradley.  Lord  Congleton  to  the  Rescue.  I  ma- 
triculate at  Christ  Church.  Letters  from  Lords  Lawrence  and  Shaf tesbury  :  An 
Idiotic  and  Lamentable  Destruction.  My  Membership  of  the  Oxford  Union 
Debating  Society.  Lord  Curzon  in  those  Days.  His  Mental  Supremacy 
and  Cultured  Oratory.  Lord  Midleton  Before  and  After.  Regarding  the 
Rank  of  Viceroys :  Lord  Houghton,  Viceroy  as  Baron  ;  Lawrence,  Viceroy 
as  Commoner.  Lady  Havelock,  Widow  of  the  Hero  of  Lucknow.  I  meet  the 
Celebrated  Spurgeon :  Stealing  the  Colours :  His  Amusement  at  my  Joke  at 
Lady  Havelock's  Expense.  A  Sketch  of  Spurgeon.  My  Luncheon  Party  in 
Piccadilly.  "  Daddy  Levi,"  Lord  Burnham's  Brother.  "  I  am  not  Jones, 
I  am  St.  Paul."  Recollections  of  Sir  Richard  Temple  at  the  Nash  :  Beauty 
and  the  Beast.  Sir  Richard  annexes  a  Star.  Heirloom  Panelling  interned 
in  Wallpaper.  Whitewash  at  Audley  End.  Lord  Braybrooke's  Recovery  of 
Ancient  Oak.  Whitewashing  a  Duchess.  The  Much  we  do  for  the  Dead  : 
the  Little  for  the  Living.  Lord  Ranfurly's  Story.  The  Bungling  of  a  Prayer. 
The  Canterbury  Cricket  Week.  Luncheon  with  Lord  Harris,  the  Cricketer, 
and  Lady  Harris.  Lord  Forester's  Stories. 

HAVE  known  several  Viceroys  of  India.  At  this  dis- 
J-  tance  of  time  I  am  endeavouring  to  recall  my  first 
impressions  of  the  great  Lord  Lawrence — I  often  saw 
him  in  after  years,  but  those  first  impressions  are  the 
remembrances  that  mostly  dwell  with  me.  The  man  who 
was  termed  the  "  Saviour  of  India  "  had  not  long  returned 

237 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

from  his  arduous  years  as  Viceroy,  and  was  established 
at  a  house  in  Queen's  Gate.  We  were  walking  across  Hyde 
Park,  my  father  and  I  ;  he  was  taking  me  to  tea  with  this 
celebrated  man,  and  as  we  walked  he  told  me  of  the  man 
we  were  about  to  see,  and  the  wonderful  Empire  for  which 
his  career  had  done  so  much.  I  was  quite  young  at  the 
time,  and  this,  as  far  as  I  can  recollect,  was  my  first  know- 
ledge of  India.  With  infinite  pains  my  father  told  and 
explained  to  me  all  that  he  thought  my  small  brain  could 
carry  of  the  intricacies  of  that  land,  and  the  many  pitfalls 
that  awaited  any  who  would  dabble  in  its  government 
without  life-long  knowledge  of  the  peculiarities,  customs 
and  religions  of  its  peoples.  During  that  long  walk  from 
Portland  Place  to  Queen's  Gate  he  told  me  much  of  Lord 
Lawrence  and  of  his  long  friendship  with  him,  emphasizing 
on  his  wonderful  foresight  and  determination,  so  that 
in  a  sense  I  seemed  to  know  the  man  before  ever  I  saw 
him.  My  father  added :  "  You  ought  indeed  to  learn 
a  great  deal  of  India  this  week,  for  to-morrow  we  go  to 
Lady  Havelock's,  and  there  are  few  women  better  able  to 
answer  any  question  you  may  ask  if  anything  occurs  to  you 
to-day  which  you  do  not  understand ;  for  Lady  Havelock 
is  not  only  the  widow  of  one  of  the  most  brilliant  heroes  of 
the  Indian  Mutiny  but  is  herself  connected  by  parentage 
with  that  land." 

From  what  I  had  been  told  during  this  long  walk  of  the 
greatness  and  grandeur  of  the  Indian  Viceroyalty,  I  rather 
timorously  anticipated  much  magnificence,  not  to  say 
pomp  and  ceremony,  surrounding  the  man  I  was  to  meet. 
Nor  was  I  disillusioned  as  regards  the  house  itself.  I  can 
still  recall  a  fine  house  and  very  fine  staircase  (I  think  it 
was  square)  ;  it  was  quite  a  small  palace  I  thought  in  my 
immature  way,  and  a  very  seemly  beginning  for  all  that  I 

238 


A  Viceroy  in  Slippers 

pictured  and  conjectured  of  the  reception  which  awaited  me. 
Imagine  my  astonishment,  expecting,  in  my  inexperience, 
a  radiant  uniform  and  much  grandeur,  to  be  kindly  greeted 
by  an  upright,  spare  man  in  mufti  with  an  adornment 
never  beheld  by  me  before  beyond  the  sacred  secrecies  of  a 
bedroom,  viz.,  a  pair  of  vividly  bright  carpet  slippers. 
Somehow  those  carpet  slippers  remained  in  memory  all 
my  life.  I  doubt  if  I  have  ever  seen  slippers  in  a  drawing- 
room  before  or  since,  and  their  presence,  with  all  that  I 
had  been  told  of  the  great  doings  of  this  great  man,  gave  me 
much  food  for  boyish  wonder.  "  And  this  is  your  boy  ?  " 
he  said  to  my  father ;  then,  turning  to  me  :  "  I  am  sure 
you  love  your  father  ;  he  is  a  man  whom  to  know  is  to  love." 
I  can  remember  that  he  patted  my  head,  and  he  is  the 
second  great  man  who  had  done  so,  for  that  little  act  is 
about  the  earliest  thing  I  can  remember,  and  to  this  day 
I  can  see  the  glorious  sunshine  glinting  the  Mediterranean 
and  the  golden  yellow  of  oranges  and  lemons,  as  my  father 
and  I  stood  talking  to  the  venerable  Lord  Brougham. 
I  remember  that  I  was  endeavouring  to  hold  in  bulging 
pockets  and  hands  eighteen  oranges  which  I  had  bought 
for  one  penny,  and  that  as  the  ex-Lord  Chancellor  patted 
my  head  some  of  the  oranges  escaped,  and  the  old  man 
tried  to  pick  them  up.  So  you  see,  that  if  there  be  nothing 
in  my  head,  the  touch  of  greatness  has  been  on  it — alas  that 
immortality  be  not  infectious !  For  if  neither  Brougham 
nor  Lawrence  were  what  one  would  call  geniuses,  they  left 
their  indelible  mark  on  time  in  the  wholly  diverse  roles 
which  they  so  definitely  distinguished. 

I  had  subsequently  a  much  less  pleasant  association 
with  the  great  Lord  Lawrence.  Some  years  later,  when 
it  was  about  time  that  my  brother  and  I  should  go  to  Oxford, 
my  father  took  counsel  with  two  of  his  oldest  friends,  Lords 

239 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

Lawrence  and  Congleton.  These  two  elderly  men  threw 
themselves  whole-heartedly  into  the  matter,  especially  the 
ex-Viceroy.  It  turned  out  that  Lord  Lawrence  was 
an  intimate  friend  of  Bradley,  late  Dean  of  Westminster, 
but  at  that  time  Head  of  University  College,  Oxford. 
He  said  that  there  was  no  question  about  it,  Bradley  was  the 
man  to  look  after  us.  All  this  seemed  quite  easy  and 
beautiful  until  on  making  inquiries  it  transpired  that  once 
you  entered  the  gates  of  "  Univ  : "  all  young  joys  fled  from 
you  and  you  were  made  to  work  your  youth  out  in  the 
endeavour  to  obtain  mental  superiority.  In  other  words, 
Bradley  was  a  glutton  for  work,  and  the  proposal  did  not  seem 
to  offer  a  pleasurable  prospect  of  a  rosy  undergraduateship. 
Most  fortunately  for  us  Congleton  strongly  advocated  Braze- 
nose  or  Christ  Church.  My  brother  and  I  added  whatever 
little  influence  we  had,  with  the  consequence  that  we 
finally  matriculated  on  the  same  day  at  "  The  House," 
and,  it  may  be  added  in  parenthesis,  the  identically  same 
day  and  hour  saw  us  each  take  our  degree.  This  is  not  the 
place  to  enter  into  the  many  happenings  worth  recalling 
which  occurred  during  those  Christ  Church  years.  Else- 
where in  this  volume  some  of  them  have  been  disentombed, 
such  of  them  as  it  may  be  politic  to  publish ;  but  alas ! 
the  best  of  them  it  is  wiser  to  let  lie  buried. 

There  was  wonderful  power  in  Lord  Lawrence's  face, 
and  I  was  always  struck  by  the  quickness  with  which  he  gave 
a  decision.  It  was  a  strong  face,  but  the  manner  was  kindly 
and  gentle,  and  indeed  it  is  a  life-long  wonder  to  me  how 
I  had  not  the  sense  to  remember  more.  I  can  never  hear 
the  name  of  Lord  Lawrence  without  a  contempt  for  myself 
which  is  appalling.  Only  think  the  unspeakable  idiot  I 
was  !  After  taking  my  degree  at  Christ  Church  the  Dean 
sent  for  me  one  day  and  said :  "  I  have  various  letters 

240 


"WHOM     TO     KNOW     IS     TO     LOVE." 

Lord  Lawrence's  tribute  to  the  poet's  father. 


[To  face  page  240. 


A  Viceroy  in  Slippers 

about  you  and  your  brother  which  perhaps  you  may 
like  to  have  ;  they  are  from  Lord  Lawrence  and  Lord 
Congleton,  and  I  think  there  are  one  or  two  from  Lord 
Shaftesbury."  Can  you  imagine  anyone  being  such  a  fool, 
for  when  the  Dean  said  :  "  I  will  look  them  out  and  send 
them  to  you,"  I  quickly  replied,  "  Oh,  please,  Mr.  Dean, 
don't  trouble."  On  the  spur  of  the  moment,  whether  from 
swagger  or  stupidity,  or  because  one  is  an  innate  simpleton, 
youth  can  enact  unbelievable  blunders,  and  to  this  day  I 
deplore  the  loss  of  those  valuable  letters. 

My  membership  of  the  Oxford  Union  Debating  Society 
I  owe  to  another  ex-Viceroy  of  India,  for  I  was  proposed 
by  Lord  Curzon  of  Kedleston  and  seconded  by  Lord 
Midleton.  There  was  no  doubt  amongst  any  who  knew 
Curzon  in  those  days  that  a  great  career  awaited  him. 
My  own  opinion  of  his  intellect  and  wonderful  mastery 
of  words  in  debate  is  that  his  career  is  infinitely  less  than 
might  easily  have  been  his  at  any  other  time  in  history. 
His  stupendous  knowledge  and  oratorical  gifts  have  fallen 
upon  evil  times,  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  magnetic 
splendour  of  Lord  Salisbury's  offer  to  one  so  young  and 
the  attraction  of  the  Viceroyalty  of  India  divorced  him, 
as  it  were,  from  English  politics  at  a  time  infinitely  critical 
to  his  after  influence.  It  was  fortunate  for  various  other 
politicians  less  mentally  endowed  that  he  was  so  opportunely 
removed  at  a  period  when  his  presence  could  not  but  have 
been  effectively  felt.  It  is  indeed  one  of  the  most  peculiar 
accidents  in  the  whole  of  political  history  that  Midleton, 
always  envious  of  the  superior  intellect,  should  have  been 
Secretary  of  State  for  India  during  the  Viceroyalty  of  his 
abler  contemporary.  The  betting  would  be  hundreds 
against  such  a  shuffling  of  the  political  pack.  For  Midleton's 
after  political  career  and  its  extinguishment,  that  apparent 

241  16 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

rise  of  his  in  the  Cabinet,  was  but  the  gilded  precursor 
of  that  fateful  fall.  St.  John  Brodrick,  as  Midleton  then 
was,  was  from  his  babyhood  little  more  than  a  bureaucrat, 
painstaking  without  premonition,  indefatigable  without 
inspiration  ;  his  style,  heavy  without  the  weight  of  wisdom 
and  with  a  dullness  unredeemed  by  humour.  His  relation- 
ship by  marriage  was  doubtless  a  factor  in  Mr.  Balfour's 
choice  of  him,  and  his  earldom  seems  to  me  easily  earned 
considering  the  salaries  and  the  prominence  which  had 
already  rewarded  merits  and  services  not  so  easily  discernible. 

Lord  Curzon  did  not  go  to  India  as  a  commoner  ;  he 
was  created  an  Irish  peer  previous  to  his  departure.  His 
choice  of  an  Irish  barony  left  him  the  option  of  returning 
to  the  Commons  should  he  be  so  minded,  and  thus  minded 
he  assuredly  must  have  been,  for  in  the  Lower  House  lay 
his  surest  chance  of  prominence  and  power  ;  but  it  has 
always  been  said  that  Queen  Victoria  put  her  foot  down  with 
the  remark,  that  she  would  not  hear  of  one  who  had  repre- 
sented her  as  Viceroy  returning  to  the  Lower  House. 
Whereupon  Curzon  was  elected  as  a  representative  peer. 
Lord  Lawrence  was  not  raised  to  the  Upper  House  until 
nearly  a  year  after  his  return  from  India,  and  I  cannot  recall 
any  other  instance  of  a  commoner  as  Viceroy  in  India.  The 
old  rule  as  regards  Viceroys  used  to  be  that  a  man  under 
the  degree  of  earl  was  scarcely  eligible,  and  when  the  present 
Lord  Crewe  went  to  Ireland  as  Lord  Houghton  it  was 
thought  to  be  a  precedent. 

Harking  back  to  my  boyhood  and  the  visit  already  spoken 
of  to  Lady  Havelock,  widow  of  the  hero  of  Lucknow,  she 
was  one  whom  I  was  destined  to  find  among  the  kindest 
of  the  many  friends  of  my  youth.  She  was  a  woman  of 
great  force  of  character,  very  Low  Church,  if  even  as  High 
as  that,  and  a  consummate  Radical ;  nevertheless,  the 

242 


A  Viceroy  in  Slippers 

radicalism  of  those  days  would  be  only  moderate  Conserva- 
tism now.  Years  after  when  I  was  at  Christ  Church,  she 
said  to  me  :  "  You  have  actually  Canon  Pusey  at  the 
House  ;  now  I  want  you  to  do  me  a  great  favour  :  I  want 
you  to  meet  Spurgeon  ;  I  know  he's  not  much  in  your  line, 
but  will  you  come  and  dine  here  if  I  ask  him  to  dinner  ? J! 
I  told  her  how  dining  with  her  was  always  my  greatest 
pleasure,  and  how  much  I  valued  meeting  a  man  of  genius, 
as  undoubtedly  Spurgeon  was  ;  and  so  that  dinner-party 
was  arranged.  When  the  eventful  night  arrived,  I,  knowing 
that  Lady  Havelock  intended  to  decorate  her  table  with 
yellow  flowers,  that  being  the  Party  colour  of  her  son,  Sir 
Henry  Havelock-Allan,  who  was  then  standing  for  Parlia- 
ment, went  and  bought  a  large  number  of  scarlet 
geraniums,  which  was  the  Conservative  colour.  On  arriving 
at  the  house,  and  devoting  a  few  minutes  to  squaring  the 
butler,  I  went  into  the  dining-room  and  exhumed  all  the 
yellow  flowers  from  their  vases,  replacing  them  with 
geraniums.  I  then  ascended  and  entered  the  drawing-room 
as  meek  as  a  lamb,  and  was  presented  to  the  eloquent 
Baptist.  I  never  saw  a  man  laugh  so  much  as  he  did  when 
we  entered  the  dining-room.  Lady  Havelock  was  speech- 
less with  surprise,  but  she  had  no  lack  of  language  when  she 
spotted  me,  for  we  had  had  many  arguments  on  politics 
long  before  this.  Spurgeon  had  a  great  sense  of  humour, 
and  I  verily  believe  would  have  been  tickled  by  the  drollery 
of  the  following  witticism  which  was  created  by  his  own 
death.  On  his  demise  a  notice  was  put  up  fronting  the 
Tabernacle,  which  ran  : 

"  Mr.  Spurgeon  started  for  Heaven  at  ten  this  morning." 
Under  which  an  irreverent  wag  wrote  : 

'  Three  p.m.     Not  yet  arrived,  getting  anxious.     Peter." 
This  reminds  me  of  a  brochure  with  its  half  million  sale 

243  16* 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

in  Ireland  before  I  was  born.  It  appears  that  when  Dan 
O'Connell,  the  Great  Liberator  as  he  was  called,  died  in 
Rome,  the  Cardinal-Secretary  telegraphed  to  Dublin  stating 
that  the  "  soul  of  the  Great  Liberator  had  passed  at  such 
and  such  an  hour  to  the  Bosom  of  the  Father."  But  no 
sooner  had  the  news  arrived  in  Ireland  than  the  Archbishop 
of  Dublin  and  all  the  Roman  Catholic  Bishops  and  clergy 
set  about  inaugurating  masses  for  the  removal  of  O'Connell's 
soul  from  purgatory.  This  proceeding  was  of  course 
most  lucrative  for  the  Church,  and  my  father's  brochure 
naturally  inquired  concerning  O'Connell's  whereabouts. 
With  a  Cardinal  taking  one  view  of  his  final  destination 
and  an  Archbishop  taking  another,  there  was  certainly 
room  for  misapprehension.  In  consequence  of  this  brochure, 
one  of  the  earliest  sights  of  my  childhood  was  seeing  my 
beloved  father  burnt  in  effigy.  It  has  indeed  meant  much 
for  me  that  in  reality  he  was  spared  to  me  for  so  long.  This 
book  would  hardly  contain  what  I  owe  to  him  in  thought 
and  knowledge,  and  indeedln  example,  which  alas !  I  have 
been  so  slow  to  follow. 

I  was  greatly  struck  with  Spurgeon.  He  had  stupendous 
vigour,  which  seemed  emphasized  by  his  thick,  short  neck 
and  the  comparative  ungracefulness  of  his  figure.  These 
physical  drawbacks  seemed  to  lend  him  a  sense  of  sturdiness, 
and  his  utterances  had  a  corresponding  strength.  There 
was  little  of  grace,  but  a  great  deal  of  mental  grandeur. 
You  felt  in  the  presence  of  a  real  man,  and  it  left  you 
no  room  to  wonder  that  he  swayed  the  masses.  Lady 
Havelock  was  overjoyed  when  weeks  after  it  transpired  that 
I  had  been  all  the  way  to  the  Elephant  and  Castle  to  hear 
Spurgeon.  In  those  days  I  made  a  point  of  hearing  every 
great  speaker,  no  matter  what  was  his  creed.  By  this  means 
my  soul  remained  cosmopolitan,  and,  like  a  fish  with  air 

244 


A  Viceroy  in  Slippers 

and  water,  contained  only  that  which  it  conceived  to  be 
vital,  but  it  was  certainly  a  curious  sensation  to  hear 
Spurgeon  one  Sunday  and,  back  at  Oxford  the  next,  to 
listen  to  Liddon. 

Lady  Havelock  had  also  a  rare  sense  of  humour.  After 
I  came  of  age  I  had  a  charming  set  of  rooms  in  Sackville 
Street,  Piccadilly,  and  the  very  first  luncheon  party  I  gave 
was  for  my  dear  father,  and  I  invited  a  selection  of 
his  old  cronies.  I  remember  that  amongst  others  there 
were  Lady  Havelock  and  her  talented  daughter,  and  the 
late  Lord  Kinnaird.  I  shall  never  forget  how  amused 
they  were  when  I  told  them  a  story  which  was  then  tickling 
a  number  of  clubmen.  I  turned  to  Lady  Havelock  and 
said  :  "  You  and  Lord  Kinnaird  know  a  lot  more  about 
the  Apostles  and  people  of  that  sort  than  I  do,  but  I  think 
I  can  tell  you  a  story  of  St.  Paul  that  you've  never  heard 
before.  There  exists  in  London  a  very  well-known  man 
in  club  life  named  Horace  Jones.  He  has  lately  returned 
from  a  long  tour.  Whilst  he  was  abroad  his  father,  a  Welsh 
squire,  resumed  the  old  family  name  of  St.  Paul.  Horace, 
on  his  return,  was  met  by  *  Daddy '  Levi  (as  they  called 
the  first  Lord  Burnham's  brother),  who  said  to  him, 
'  Hullo,  Jones,  how  are  you  ?  '  In  a  sepulchral  voice  Horace 
retorted,  *  I'm  not  Jones ;  I'm  St.  Paul.'  Whereupon 
(  Daddy  '  Levi  went  into  a  club  of  which  each  was  a  member 
and  said,  '  Do  you  know,  Horace  has  gone  clean  off  his 
chump  :  he's  going  about  London  swearing  he's  St.  Paul.' ' 
Never  tell  me  the  unco'  guid  don't  like  a  good  story  and  a 
good  lunch.  The  landlady  afterwards  said  to  me,  "  Oh, 
sir,  I'm  so  pleased,  they  ate  all  my  best  dishes."  It  was 
often  I  twitted  them  about  this. 

Lady  Havelock  had  the  honour  of  being  practically  made 
a   baronet,   for   that   recognition   having   been   conferred 

245 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

on  her  distinguished  husband  after  his  death,  a  new  patent 
gave  her  the  precedence  of  a  baronet's  widow  and  the 
succession  for  her  son.  It  always  seems  to  me  such  a  pity 
that  by  reason  of  having  been  left  an  estate  that  son  had 
to  merge  his  historic  name  in  that  of  Allan. 

Recollections  of  men  whose  names  are  household  words 
in  India  bring  one  naturally  to  memories  of  years  of  friend- 
ship with  the  late  Sir  Richard  Temple  and  the  happy 
days  I  spent  with  him  at  The  Nash,  his  historic  place  in 
Worcestershire.  He  was  a  man  widely  read  in  many 
subjects  quite  different  to  those  necessary  to  his  adminis- 
trative career.  He  was  wonderfully  interesting  to  talk 
to  and  gave  himself  no  airs  whatever,  being  most  generous 
in  the  supply  of  data  or  information.  His  heart  too  was 
young  to  the  last  and  he  took  great  joy  in  life.  An  ardent 
diner-out,  he  was  never  blase,  and  although  inured  to  the 
stateliness  of  the  East  was  not  averse  to  participating  in 
the  frivolities  of  the  West.  In  him  beauty  had  one  of  her 
most  ardent  admirers,  and  it  was  a  common,  almost  every 
day,  occurrence  to  see  the  most  beautiful  debutante  of  the 
ball  being  escorted  to  supper  by  a  man  supremely  deficient 
in  loveliness.  Sir  Richard  Temple  had  the  name  of  being 
the  least  lovely  looking  man  of  his  generation,  and  when 
they  called  him  and  Lady  Temple,  Beauty  and  the  Beast, 
he  querulously  said  to  a  iriend,  "  I  can't  think  why  they've 
given  such  a  name  to  my  poor  wife." 

When  I  was  at  The  Nash  he  showed  me  a  number  of 
his  stars  and  crosses,  explaining  to  me  what  they  each 
were.  There  were  so  many  and  the  cases  so  full  that  I 
remarked  on  it,  saying,  "  There  will  be  difficulty  in  making 
room  for  another."  "  Whether  there's  room  or  not 
doesn't  matter,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  never  get  another." 
"  Oh  yes,  you  will,  Sir  Richard,"  I  rejoined.  That  same 

246 


A  Viceroy  in  Slippers 

night  at  a  dance  he  was  to  be  seen  leading  a  prominent 
prima  donna  to  supper.  I  went  up  to  him  and  said,  "  Ah, 
after  all  I  was  right ;  you  have  not  been  long  in  annexing 
a  star." 

In  addition  to  The  Nash  he  had  a  charming  house 
hard  by  Hampstead  Heath,  and  it  is  a  pity  that  he  was 
just  a  little  previous  to  the  motor  which  would  have 
quickened  his  nightly  descents  on  London.  But  I  verily 
believe,  had  he  been  forced  to  go  out  in  a  bathchair,  he 
would  have  preferred  that  tardy  means  of  transmission  rather 
than  to  be  left  stranded  apart  from  his  fellow-men  and, 
may  I  add,  women.  I  think  that  he  was  given  to  wearing 
his  ribbons  more  frequently  than  any  other  man  I  ever 
met.  I  doubt  if  I  have  ever  seen  him  in  a  bare  shirt.  I 
daresay  that  as  a  diplomatist  he  had  much  to  conceal. 

The  Nash,  Sir  Richard  Temple's  place,  has  been 
Temple  property  for  many  generations,  though  Sir  Richard, 
like  so  many  who  keep  alive  old  names,  was  only  collaterally 
descended  from  the  Temples  of  Nash,  a  branch  of  the 
Temples  of  Stowe.  There  is  some  very  fine  old  oak  at 
The  Nash.  The  very  beautiful  oak  fourposter  which  I 
occupied  during  my  visits  there  had  an  ancient  date  carved 
upon  it  together  with  the  Temple  arms.  There  is  a 
curious  story  connected  with  this,  and  many  other  oaken 
heirlooms.  It  appears  that  Sir  Richard's  father  was  a 
bit  of  a  Philistine  with  but  scant  reverence  for  oak  panellings 
and  such  like.  It  was  only  by  the  merest  accident  that 
the  very  fine  and  very  old  panels  in  the  dining-room  were 
discovered.  It  cost  Sir  Richard  £200  to  exhume  them 
from  under  no  less  than  seven  layers  of  wallpaper,  where 
they  had  lain  unsuspected  for  years.  Can  you  imagine 
any  one  papering  ancient  oak  like  this  ?  The  same  Goth 
sold  all  the  old  bedsteads  and  chairs  and  replaced  them  by 

247 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

monstrosities  of  modern  brass.  The  late  baronet  had  his 
work  cut  out  for  him  in  scouring  the  country-side  in 
search  of  these  lost  treasures.  He  was  fortunate  in  recover- 
ing nearly  the  lot,  and  I  only  wish  I  could  recall  the  many 
adventures  he  told  me  during  the  search.  He  was  indeed 
unbelievably  lucky  in  getting  back  the  fine  old  fourposters, 
Temple  arms  and  all,  which  his  forbear  had  sold,  ruth- 
lessly ignoring  them  as  valueless. 

Audley  End,  the  beautiful  historic  seat  of  Lord  Bray- 
brooke,  offers  a  very  similar  instance  of  the  vandalism  of 
the  past.  Few  are  the  visitors  who  have  not  noticed  the 
exquisite  oak  panelling  which  greets  you  in  the  ancient 
hall,  and  it  seems  impossible  to  believe  that  the  oak  on 
which  we  look  was  once  whitewashed.  For  years  the 
venerable  foundation  was  never  suspected,  until  one  day 
the  whitewash  was  accidentally  chipped,  and  the  work- 
men in  proceeding  to  mend  it,  discovered  the  oak.  Need- 
less to  say,  the  late  Lord  Braybrooke  had  the  whitewash 
instantly  removed. 

This  mention  of  whitewash  reminds  me  that  some 
years  ago  the  late  Lord  Forester,  with  whom  I  was  then 
staying,  cycled  over  to  Waldershare  to  luncheon  with 
Georgina,  Lady  Guilford  and  her  son.  After  luncheon 
she  showed  us  portions  of  the  house,  and  descending  the 
grand  staircase  deplored  the  carelessness  of  the  spring 
cleaners  who  had  left  daubs  of  whitewash  on  a  very  large 
life-size  portrait  of  the  Duchess  of  Kendal.  The  obvious 
rejoinder  was  "  In  her  lifetime,  what  would  not  the  Duchess 
have  given  to  be  whitewashed  ? "  It  is  not  seldom  that  I 
have  noticed  the  much  we  do  for  the  dead,  the  little  for 
the  living. 

Sir  Richard's  museum  of  Indian  art  was  a  great  joy 
to  him,  and  he  loved  showing  his  guests  round  and  ex- 

248 


A  Viceroy  in  Slippers 

plaining  the  histories  and  meanings  of  his  collection.  He 
was  an  extraordinarily  young  man  for  his  years,  and  I  may 
mention  that  during  one  week  alone  of  my  stay  there  was 
an  archery  meeting  (most  interesting  of  its  kind,  and  the 
shooting  was  wonderful),  a  garden  party  and  a  ball. 

Lord  Ranfurly,  another  man  who  has  represented  his 
Sovereign,  told  me  an  amusing  happening  in  New  Zealand, 
where  he  was  Governor  at  the  close  of  the  last  century. 
A  certain  well-placed  official  had  for  some  time  received 
the  customary  invitation  card  for  functions  at  Govern- 
ment House.  After  his  marriage,  in  spite  of  many  letters 
from  him  explaining  that  he  had  now  a  wife,  he  continued 
to  receive  cards  only  for  himself.  After  his  wife's  death 
he  was  harrowed  by  receiving  invitations  for  her.  He 
thereupon  wrote  and  wrote  notifying  his  loss,  but  the 
invitations  still  continued  to  arrive.  Thus  matters  went 
on  until  his  re-marriage,  when  the  invitations  for  his  wife 
ceased.  He  recommenced  a  series  of  letters,  and  for  all 
I  know  is  still  writing  them  in  his  vain  endeavour  to  obtain 
recognition  for  spouse  Number  Two. 

A  prominent  person  in  Belgravia,  like  the  New  Zealand 
gentleman,  had  also  contracted  a  second  marriage,  and 
his  wife  being  very  ill,  the  prayers  of  the  congregation  were 
requested,  etc.  He  was  a  very  new  and  nervous  curate 
who  made  the  petition,  and  this  was  his  manner  of  giving 
it :  "  The  prayers  of  the  congregation  are  desired  for  Mrs. 
Dash,  whose  relatives  are  in  great  anxiety  lest  she  should 
survive."  An  added  beauty  lay  in  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Dash 
was  not  considered  by  any  means  an  irreplaceable  treasure 
by  her  relatives. 

A  few  days  after  that  luncheon  at  Waldershare  Park 
the  Canterbury  Cricket  Week  was  upon  us,  and  Lady 
Forester  took  her  house-party  to  luncheon  with  Lord 

249 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

and  Lady  Harris.  I  wish  I  could  remember  some  of  our 
host's  cricketing  stories,  but  there  are  two  curious  things 
which  Lord  Forester  told.  He  said  that  years  ago  at 
Willey  Park  (the  Foresters'  place  in  Shropshire)  there  was 
an  antiquated  verger  who  was  very  important  and  quaint. 
He  had  great  difficulty  with  his  aspirates,  an  ailing  which 
he  never  remedied.  One  Sunday  morning  he  prefaced 
the  service  by  standing  up  and  declaring  :  "  There  will 
be  no  music  to-day  in  this  church  on  account  of  han  howl 
'aving  built  'er  nest  hin  the  horgan."  On  another  occasion 
he  electrified  the  congregation  by  announcing  that  "  There 
will  be  no  service  in  this  church  next  Sunday  on  account 
of  me  and  the  rector  'aving  to  go  a-fishing  in  a  neighbour- 
ing parish."  The  poor  man  meant  "  officiating." 


250 


XIX 

CONCERNING    WIT   AND    HUMOUR 

The  Rarity  of  Wit.  A  Single  Story-d  Ass.  Stultified  by  Silence.  A  Man  prays 
for  a  Competency.  His  Distrust  of  Providence.  Witticism  from  the  French 
Senate.  The  Modern  Thief  and  the  Modern  Cross.  Lewis  Carroll  scores. 
Stories  of  Sir  George  Reid  and  Lord  Dunedin.  Lord  Marcus  Beresford  as  a 
Humorist.  Fox  and  Hare,  their  Amenities  to  a  Dun.  The  Great  Lord 
Shaftesbury  :  His  Irreverent  Brother.  The  Philanthropist  and  the  Donkey. 
Lady  Grosvenor  and  her  Daughters.  Lord  Wicklow's  Solicitude.  A  Sepulchral 
Ball.  A  Remembrance  of  Sir  John  Heron-Maxwell  and  his  Daughter,  Mrs. 
Trench.  If  Readiness  be  not  Wit,  at  least  it  is  its  Wings.  The  late 
Admiral,  Sir  Edward  Inglefield,  and  a  Virgin's  Retort. 

IS  humour  dead,  is  wit  defunct  ?  In  looking  back 
and  recalling  the  numbers  of  people  seen  and 
heard  and  known  of  me,  it  seems  incredible  how  scanty 
is  the  record  of  wit  that  I  can  gather  from  the  past.  It  is 
quite  unbelievable  how  seldom  I  have  met  anyone  who  is 
innately  amusing.  In  the  vast  majority  of  instances,  can 
anything  be  duller  than  our  dinner-parties  ?  There  is 
infinitely  more  hilarity  in  an  Irish  wake.  And  the  efforts 
to  be  amusing  are  somewhat  on  a  par  with  an  elephant's 
endeavours  to  be  sportive. 

This  dullness,  so  prevalent  in  social  life,  cannot  be  all 
of  it  due  to  inherent  brainlessness.  I  refuse  to  believe  that, 
with  the  large  amount  spent  on  the  education  of  an  average 
man  of  the  upper  classes,  so  little  can  come  of  it  that  he 
must  need  simulate  dumbness  in  order  to  conceal  ignorance. 
A  certain  measure  of  this  dullness  is  the  direct  offspring 
of  mental  cowardice.  Many  men  have  not  the  moral 

251 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

courage  to  render  themselves  liable  to  conspicuosity  (here 
I  must  coin  a  word).  I  will  give  you  an  instance  of  this. 
I  knew  a  certain  idiot  who  had  one  good  story.  He  was 
frequently  to  be  seen  in  country  houses,  for  he  was  a 
marketable  man,  and  mothers  therefore  proclaimed  him 
as  clever.  Nevertheless  he  was  essentially  an  ass.  Other 
men  never  suspected  there  was  anything  in  him  until 
our  suspicions  were  aroused  by  seeing  some  pretty  girl  or 
other,  whom  he  had  taken  into  dinner,  actually  laughing 
at  what  he  was  saying.  Whereafter  we  surrounded  the 
pretty  girl  and  extracted  from  her  the  motive  of  her 
merriment.  To  our  amazement  we  found  it  was  really 
good.  Whereupon  I  harboured  a  plot,  for  the  man  had 
given  himself  airs  and  deserved  a  reminder.  Finding  out 
the  girl  he  was  to  take  in  to  dinner  that  night,  I  charged  her 
to  extract  from  the  idiot  this  ewe-lamb  of  a  story  of  his  and 
to  do  so  as  the  dessert  appeared  on  the  table.  This  I 
communicated  to  all  the  other  men  in  the  house,  and  we 
arranged  that  on  the  appearance  of  dessert  we  should  watch 
the  girl,  and  after  the  idiot  had  got  well  into  his  story, 
we  should  all  stop  speaking  so  that  there  should  be  dead 
silence  in  the  room.  This  all  happened  as  planned,  and  the 
idiot  was  so  upset  by  being  the  cynosure  of  the  whole  table, 
so  lost  his  head  in  fact,  that  his  story  was  like  that  overheard 
by  Charley's  Aunt,  and  the  man  looked  the  ass  he  was. 

Of  course  many  men  have  good  things  to  say  but  don't 
really  know  how  to  say  them.  There  is  great  art  in  the 
telling  of  a  story,  and  of  course  if  a  man  has  flexible  features 
he  is  additionally  well  furnished  ;  but  the  pity  of  it  is 
that  the  expression  of  the  majority  of  men  is  mostly 
moustache. 

In  vino  veritas  is  the  truth,  but  not  the  whole  truth,  for 
if  there  is  veracity  in  wine,  assuredly  there  is  also  humour. 

252 


Concerning  Wit  and  Humour 

I  have  known  scores  of  men  who  in  their  sober  moments 
are  dull  as  ditch-water,  but  a  bit  squiffy  are  robustly 
humorous.  There  was  such  a  one  once  in  a  country  house. 
They  wanted  him  to  play  bridge,  but  he,  being  squiffy, 
yearned  for  his  bed.  Bedward  accordingly  he  went.  After 
he  had  departed  his  three  friends  vainly  endeavoured  to 
get  a  fourth,  but,  failing  to  do  so,  they  proceeded  to  the 
man's  bedroom  intent  on  reclaiming  him  by  force.  Opening 
the  bedroom  door,  to  their  amazement  they  found  him  on 
his  knees,  and  this  is  what  he  was  saying  :  "  O  Lord,  I  do 
beseech  Thee  to  grant  me  a  competency  ;  and  lest  Thou 
shouldst  not  know  what  a  competency  is,  it  is  .£3,000  a 
year,  paid  quarterly  in  advance."  Mark  the  distrust  of  the 
man  !  It  must  be  paid  quarterly  in  advance. 

This  criticism  regarding  social  dullness  might  include 
also  the  speeches  in  the  House  of  Commons.  Whatever 
else  the  Irish  Members  may  have  done  they  have  certainly 
redeemed  the  House  from  dullness,  but  of  late  years  I  can 
find  nothing  in  St.  Stephen's  to  vie  in  wit  with  what  was 
said  in  the  French  Senate  a  short  time  since.  It  appears 
that  the  Grand  Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honour  had  been 
conferred,  or  was  about  to  be  bestowed,  upon  some  wealthy 
profiteers.  The  matter  was  brought  before  the  Senate 
and  an  indignant  Deputy  observed  :  "  Time  was  the 
robber  was  placed  upon  the  Cross.  Nowadays  we  place 
the  Cross  upon  the  robber  !  "  Now,  my  friends,  don't  you 
wish  you  had  said  that  ?  And,  in  Heaven's  name,  why  don't 
some  or  other  of  you  say  something  to  redeem  this  world 
of  dullness  ?  Is  it  that  weight  of  bullion  outwears  the 
wings  of  wit  ? 

Of  witty  men  I  have  met,  I  can  recall  but  few  beyond 
the  names  of  Lewis  Carroll,  author  of  "  Alice  in  Wonder- 
land," who  was  my  mathematical  tutor  at  Christ  Church  ; 

253 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

Robert  Germaine,  D.C.L.,  Recorder  of  Lichfield,  who  was 
my  coach,  and  who  travelled  with  me  in  Spain  when  I  was 
reading  for  Greats ;  Lord  Morris ;  Henry,  Lord  Bangor  ; 
Lord  Atkinson  ;  Lord  Byron  ;  Sir  Jocelyn  Coghill ;  and 
in  a  mild  way  Sir  Victor  Houlton,  Sir  Herbert  Tree,  the 
late  George  Grossmith  and  dear  old  John  Lawrence  Toole. 
Lord  Marcus  Beresford  and  Lord  Dunedin  must  be  in- 
cluded amongst  excellent  raconteurs. 

Innumerable  were  the  instances  where  I  was  the  victim 
of  Lewis  Carroll's  wit.  He  was  an  agile  free-shooter,  and 
could  make  a  fool  of  you  in  such  a  gentlemanly  way.  There 
was  no  blunderbuss  about  him  ;  it  was  all  bright  arrow.  I 
would  give  worlds  to  reproduce  his  delicate  expression  and 
intonation  of  voice  as  he  said  :  "  Well,  we'll  do  so,  just  as 
you  say."  These  words  referred  to  a  problem  of  Euclid 
written  out  by  me  with  certain  orders  such  as  "  Produce 
A  to  B  and  B  to  C,  etc.  etc.,  and  such  and  such  a  thing 
will  happen."  He  would  most  whimsically  do  so,  following 
my  instructions  to  a  T,  but  the  result  would  be  in  another 
hemisphere  altogether.  Then  he  would  look  at  me  quietly 
and  say  :  "  Now,  don't  you  feel  foolish  ?  >: 

I  once  got  in  a  score  by  saying  :  "  There  must  be  some 
infection  in  this  room,  for  it's  the  only  place  in  which  I  feel 
foolish."  But  he  scored  heavily  in  this  story.  I  had 
written  to  him  explaining  why  I  could  not  attend  his  lecture 
as  arranged.  Next  time  I  saw  him  he  said  :  "I  got  your 
letter  :  why  don't  you  dot  your  i's  ?  "  To  which  I  replied  : 
(very  wrong,  I  admit,  considering  he  was  my  tutor),  "  I'm 
quite  bad  enough  myself  that  way,  without  my  letters 
being  dotty."  To  which  he  replied  :  "  My  dear  boy, 
when  a  man's  weak  in  the  head,  the  eyes  are  the  first 
things  to  give  him  away  !  " 

In  a  chapter  elsewhere  an  instance  is  given  of  the  wit 

254 


Concerning  Wit  and  Humour 

of  Sir  George  Reid,  High  Commissioner  for  Australia.  Here 
is  one  of  the  rare  scores  of  which  he  was  the  victim.  Sir 
George  was  saying  good-bye  at  a  farewell  meeting  in 
Australia.  The  late  High  Commissioner  was  a  man  of  under- 
sized stature  and  unusual  girth.  At  the  conclusion  of  the 
address  he  said  something  to  the  effect  that  he  might 
not  see  them  again,  entering  that  bourne  from  which  no 
traveller  returns.  Whereupon  a  voice  from  the  gallery 
calls  out :  "  Georgie,  the  fat  will  be  in  the  fire  !  " 

Lord  Dunedin,  late  Lord  President  of  the  Scottish 
Courts  of  Sessions,  and  at  present  one  of  our  Lords  of 
Appeal,  is  a  learned  wit.  He  knows  how  to  tell  a  story. 
It  is  surprising  how  two  men  may  tell  the  same  tale.  One 
makes  of  it  a  lantern  without  a  light,  the  other  makes  it 
a  light  that  needs  no  lantern.  Both  Lord  Marcus  and 
Lord  Dunedin  are  born  illuminators,  and,  though  it  does 
not  of  necessity  make  them  wits,  there  is  the  atmosphere  of 
it  in  their  company. 

This  instance  of  Semitic  satire  may  be  new  to  some. 
A  beautiful,  dignified  old  Hebrew  with  flowing  white 
beard  was  walking  along  the  roadside  when  he  encountered 
three  rowdy  young  men.  The  first  says  to  him  :  "  Hullo, 
Father  Abraham  ;  "  the  second,  "  Morning,  Father  Isaac  ;  " 
the  third,  "  Glad  to  see  you,  Father  Jacob."  The  old 
man  stopped,  and  leaning  upon  his  staff  looked  at  them  : 
"  I  am  neither  Father  Abraham,  Father  Isaac,  nor  Father 
Jacob  ;  but  I'll  tell  you  who  I  am.  I  am  Saul,  the  son  of 
Kish,  who  was  sent  out  to  find  his  Father's  strayed  asses, 
and  lo  !  I  have  found  three  !  " 

Lord  Dunedin  tells  the  story  of  a  man  who  was  walking 
along  the  streets  of  Dublin  quite  squiffy.  In  his  perilous 
progress  he  jolted  against  a  passer-by.  "  Do  you  know  who 
that  was  ?  "  said  a  constable,  "  that  was  Viscount  Massereene 

255 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

and  Ferrard."     "  Glory,"  said  the  man,  "  well,  they  were 
both  drunk  !  " 

Lord  Marcus  Beresford  has  been  a  feature,  one  might 
almost  say  an  illumination,  of  the  London  life  of  three 
generations.  His  humour  is  inexhaustible  and  may  be  said 
to  be  a  family  heritage,  which  is  the  more  remarkable  inas- 
much as  his  is  the  only  noble  family  in  the  Empire  which 
has  supplied  two  Archbishops  to  the  Church,  though  the 
Duke  of  Rutland  runs  him  close  with  Archbishop  Manners 
Sutton  and  the  Plunket  family  with  one  Archbishop  and 
one  Bishop.  All  Lord  Marcus's  friends  will  congratulate 
him  on  his  accession  to  .£11,000  a  year.  His  brother,  the 
late  Lord  William  Beresford,  married  Lily,  Duchess  of 
Marlborough  (he  was  her  third  husband),  and  it  was  the 
death  of  their  only  son  that  has  enriched  the  boy's  uncle 
and  guardian.  The  present  Duke  of  Marlborough  largely 
benefited  by  his  father's  divorce  and  second  marriage,  as 
it  is  said  that  Lily  Duchess  sank  over  .£20,000  in  repairing 
the  roof  of  Blenheim  Palace.  It  is  a  pity  she  did  not  place 
the  tiles  on  a  good  many  heads  I  could  mention. 

Rarely  can  one  walk  down  St.  James's  Street  (and  what 
memories  that  beautiful  thoroughfare  has  for  me.  For 
thirty-three  years  there  is  little  of  procession  or  of- festival 
that  I  have  not  witnessed  from  the  balcony  of  White's), 
it  is  rarely  indeed  that,  passing  down  the  Street  by 
St.  James's  Place,  one  does  not  recall  a  witticism  that 
was  uttered  therein.  In  that  quiet  little  cul-de-sac 
Charles  James  Fox  had  his  'pied-a-terre^  and  it  was  often  that 
he  had  with  him  his  great  friend  and  crony  Hare,  at  that 
time  our  Envoy  in  Poland.  Both  these  men  were  eternally 
decave.  From  the  records  of  Fox's  gambling  transac- 
tions still  extant  at  White's  Club  it  could  not  well  be  other- 
wise. Both  these  eminent  men  were  familiar  with  duns 

256 


Concerning  Wit  and  Humour 

and  process  servers.  One  morning  as  they  were  about  to 
proceed  to  breakfast,  Fox  espied  two  men  leaning  against 
the  railings  opposite  and  apparently  watching  the  house. 
Stepping  out  on  to  the  balcony,  making  a  bow  to  the  men, 
Fox  said,  "  Gentlemen,  is  it  your  pleasure  to-day  to  hunt 
the  Fox  or  the  Hare  ?  " 

The  late  Lord  Shaftesbury,  who  had  indeed  many  of 
the  elements  of  greatness  and  who  was  an  excellent  and 
often  an  eloquent  speaker,  himself  told  me  this  gem. 
"  You  know,"  he  said,  "  that  I  have  a  brother  who  is  said 
to  be  very  like  me,  but  I  fear  he  is  a  godless  man  and  he  has 
no  sympathy  with  my  doings.  Well,  one  day  my  brother 
found  himself  in  Fleet  Street  and  the  Strand.  His  eye  was 
suddenly  caught  by  the  words  Exeter  Hall.  '  Hullo  !  ' 
he  thought,  '  that's  where  my  saintly  brother  holds  forth, 
I'll  go  in  and  have  a  look  at  the  place.'  When  he  got  inside 
he  found  a  meeting  in  progress,  and  on  seeing  him  up  comes 
an  old  parson,  and  making  him  an  elaborate  bow,  says, 
*  Have  I  the  honour  to  address  the  Right  Honourable  the 
Earl  of  Shaftesbury,  K.G.  ?  '  whom  my  brother  astonished 
by  replying,  *  And  what  the  devil  if  you  have  ! ' 

Lord  Shaftesbury  was  one  of  a  number  of  notable  men 
whom  I  knew  from  an  early  age  from  their  friendship  with 
my  father.  My  brother  told  me  a  good  story.  It  was  the 
time  that  Lord  Shaftesbury  was  doing  much  for  the  coster's 
donkey.  My  brother's  little  boy,  aged  four,  had  a  picture 
of  the  great  man  standing  by  a  team  of  these  animals  which 
he  had  at  St.  Giles,  his  place  in  Dorset.  Shortly  after,  my 
brother  and  his  little  boy  (now  a  learned  LL.D.  of  Cam- 
bridge) were  asked  to  stay  at  St.  Giles.  When  they  arrived, 
the  child,  looking  at  his  lordship,  said,  "  This  is  Lord 
Shaftesbury,  but  where's  the  donkey  ?  "  The  great  man, 
who  was  full  of  dry  humour,  was  vastly  tickled  by  this,  and 

257  X7 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

said, "  It's  rather  rough  on  me  if  in  future  I'm  not  recogniz- 
able unless  I'm  in  company  with  an  ass."  Few  men  have 
made  such  an  impression  upon  me  as  did  this  wonderful 
philanthropist.  He  was  so  pure  of  purpose,  so  self- 
contained,  so  marvellously  ready,  and  withal  so  distinguished 
in  every  way.  England  owes  much  to  a  man  whose  life 
was  devoted  to  the  well-being  of  all  who  were  poor  and 
distressed,  it  would  not  be  well  to  let  the  memory  of  such 
a  man  die. 

How  proud  the  great  statesman  would  be  (for  he  was 
eminently  a  statesman  as  well  as  a  philanthropist,  and 
many  were  the  Bishops  enthroned  at  his  suggestion), 
pleased  indeed  would  he  be  with  the  present  chatelaine  of 
St.  Giles,  his  grandson's  wife.  I  remember  Lady  Shaftes- 
bury  and  her  sister,  Lady  Beauchamp,  as  girls  when  I  was 
at  Saighton,  guest  of  their  mother,  Lady  Grosvenor. 
They  were  such  simple,  unaffected,  artistic  girls.  There 
was  such  an  air  of  refinement  about  them  and  their  sur- 
roundings. Art  and  Music  and  Poesy  were  spelt  with 
capitals.  They  were  not  adornments  but  part  of  their 
lives.  Few  mothers  have  such  daughters ;  few  daughters 
such  a  mother  ! 

It  is  extraordinary  how  often  humour  is  suggested  by 
the  altogether  accidental  conjunction  of  elements  not  in 
themselves  humorous.  The  following  is  a  good  instance 
of  what  I  mean.  When  I  was  staying  at  Shelton  Abbey 
with  the  late  Lord  and  Lady  Wicklow  they  took  me  miles 
and  miles  away  to  a  ball  given  by  Colonel  Tottenham. 
About  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  we  had  arrived  Lord 
Wicklow,  to  his  surprise,  found  me  in  the  buffet  having  a 
cigarette.  He  looked  very  concerned  and  said  :  "  Why 
aren't  you  dancing  ?  I  do  hope  you  are  amusing  your- 
self ?  "  "  Well,  I'm  doing  my  best,"  I  said,  "  but  it's 

258 


Concerning  Wit  and  Humour 

very  difficult."  "  How's  that  ?  "  he  said  with  concern. 
"  Well,"  I  replied,  "  the  first  person  Colonel  Tottenham 
introduced  me  to  was  Graves,  the  Bishop  of  Limerick's 
son,  and  then  Graves  introduced  me  to  Archdeacon 
Tombs,  the  Rector,  and  then  they  found  me  a  partner 
whose  name  turned  out.  to  be  Seagraves :  now  how  can 
one  feel  gay  under  such  circumstances  ?  " 

I  may  give  another  instance  of  a  similar  association  of 
names.  At  the  wedding  of  Sir  John  Heron-Maxwell's 
daughter  to  a  grandson  of  Dr.  Trench,  late  Archbishop 
of  Dublin,  I  was  the  only  one  at  the  reception  who  recalled 
that  the  bride's  grandfather  was  a  Brooke,  his  daughter 
one  of  the  Dykes,  and,  had  he  lived  until  to-day,  he  would 
have  seen  his  grand-daughter  a  Trench.  I  was  at  Biarritz 
when  what  was  reported  to  have  been  the  only  marriage 
which  had  ever  resulted  from  the  hilarity  of  that  breezy 
place  was  celebrated  :  the  bridgroom's  name  was  Drake 
and  the  bride  was  Fox.  I  never  heard  whether  she  turned 
out  a  vixen. 

If  readiness  be  not  wit,  at  least  it  is  its  wings.  Celerity 
is  everything  in  retort.  Here  is  an  instance  from  a  girl. 
I  could  do  with  half  an  hour  with  that  girl,  or  even  three- 
quarters  if  she  were  not  in  a  hurry.  The  late  Admiral, 
Sir  Edward  Inglefield,  had  infinitely  more  friends  than 
he  could  possibly  remember.  He  remembered  their  faces, 
but  could  not  recollect  their  names,  or  who  they 
were.  My  father,  under  similar  circumstances,  invariably 
said  :  "  How  are  they  at  home  ?  "  and  got  some  clue 
when  he  heard  that  Jack  was  back  again  from  India,  or 
Johnnie  still  in  Van  Diemen's  Land.  Sir  Edward's  mode 
of  arriving  at  identity  had  a  pretty  turn  about  it.  He 
would  solicitously  inquire  :  "  And  are  you  still  in  the  dear 
old  home  ?  "  At  a  ball  one  night  a  pretty  girl  came  up  to 

259  17* 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

the  Admiral  and,  after  they  had  talked  for  some  time, 
he  says,  as  per  programme,  "  And  are  you  still  in  the 
dear  old  home  ?  "  To  which  she  retorts :  "  Well,  we 
should  have  had  to  be  jolly  smart  in  moving,  since  you 
dined  with  us  there  last  night." 

I  am  myself  a  bit  of  a  sinner  in  this  respect.  I  rarely 
recollect  features  unless  the  people  interest  me.  On 
one  occasion  I  took  a  girl  in  to  dinner,  and  the  same  night 
at  a  ball  did  not  know  her  until  she  remarked  :  "  What 
a  heavenly  savoury  it  was  to-night !  "  She  had  opened 
her  soul  to  me,  so  I  took  her  down  to  supper.  At  that  meal 
I  looked  at  her  hard  so  as  to  know  her  to-morrow  in  the 
Park.  Dress  is  of  little  assistance,  as  girls,  in  both  senses, 
are  quick  to  change.  Once  in  the  Row  I  went  up  to  a 
woman,  having,  as  I  thought,  identified  her  by  her  dress, 
but  it  was  another  girl  wearing  a  similar  confection. 
However,  she  made  friends  all  the  same. 


260 


XX 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  BIARRITZ 

Spring,  and  Her  Scarlet  Carpet.  Sir  Robert  Peel's  Dictum.  Lionel  Tollemache. 
The  Massacre  of  Incurables.  Milady  Egerton  of  Tatton  (the  late  Peeress) 
That  Remarkable  Woman,  Lady  Anna  Loftus.  Concerning  Mark  Pattison, 
the  Erudite  Rector  Sir  M.  Monier-Williams— a  Sanscrit  Professor.  A 
Daughter-in-Law  in  the  Ditch.  Jowett  and  the  Unhappy  Youth.  Princess 
Frederica  of  Hanover.  Lady  MacGregor's  Happy  Parties  at  Hampton  Court 
Palace.  Due  de  San  Lucca  and  His  Cousin  "  Never-Removed."  Lord  Euston's 
Matrimonial  Mishap.  A  Weird  Chapter  of  Accidents.  Lady  Eleanor  Magniac's 
Mad  Mismanagement  of  her  Life.  Two  Women  with  Eight  Husbands. 
The  Peccadillos  of  a  Prince.  I  am  Challenged  to  a  Duel.  Saved  by  Lady 
Strathmore. 

OH,  that  beautiful  Spring !  it  seems  but  yesterday  that 
I  met  her  as  she  was  crimsoning  the  uplands  and 
vales  of  the  Basque  country  with  the  blossoms  of  the 
scarlet  anemone.  How  shall  I  describe  the  Biarritz  of 
those  days  ?  Throughout  all  Time  the  Great  War  will 
always  have  the  name  of  being  the  masterful  changer  of 
all  things.  But  many  previous  years  have  not  altogether 
been  innocent  of  destruction.  It  is  often  through  life 
that  Sir  Robert  Peel's  great  words  have  recurred  to  one  : 
"  You  can  move  back  ;  you  can  move  on  ;  but  you  cannot 
stand  still."  How  true  this  is !  There  is  nothing  to 
which  it  does  not  apply.  To  some  such  who  may  perhaps 
wander  through  these  pages  a  century  hence,  it  may  doubt- 
less be  of  interest  to  hear  from  an  eye-witness  of  the  time 
what  an  English  colony  was  like  in  days  when  English 
society  was  exclusive,  and  outrageous  wealth  no  discomfort 

261 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

to  well-bred,  well-placed  people  of  assured  position.  Those 
were  days  when  life  was  not  made  impossible  by  the 
aggressive  grandeurs  of  the  nouveaux  riches.  Society  was 
sufficiently  small  for  people  to  have  room  to  see  and  appre- 
ciate their  friends,  and  somehow  it  seems  to  me  in  looking 
back  that  there  were  more  people  worth  appreciating.  I 
should  think  that  in  that  Spring-time  years  ago  there 
were  at  Biarritz  in  villas  and  hotels  from  fifteen  hundred 
to  two  thousand  English,  nearly  all  of  whom  one  either 
previously  knew  or  knew  of.  In  addition  to  these  there 
were  many  foreign  families  of  distinction,  and  not  only 
did  these  people  for  the  most  part  speak  English  fluently, 
but  also  in  many  respects  they  were  congenial  to  us. 

I  am  indebted  to  the  Biarritz  of  those  days  for  three 
friendships  which  largely  influenced  my  later  life.  To 
begin  with,  I  put  up  at  the  Hotel  d'Angleterre,  which  was 
the  principal  hostel  of  its  day.  Subsequently  I  had  my 
'pied-a-terre  in  a  quaint,  old-world,  red  house,  where  I 
was  much  at  home  in  a  dear,  delicious,  old-fashioned  and 
rather  rambling  suite  of  rooms.  On  arrival  at  Biarritz, 
the  first  to  cordially  welcome  me  were  Lionel  Tollemache 
and  his  wife.  No  two  people  could  be  more  after  my  heart. 
They  were  cultured,  well-bred,  erratic  and  original.  They 
belonged  to  that  exclusive  Cheshire  society  which  con- 
sidered itself  as  nearest  to  Heaven  in  all  things  social. 
Lionel  was  a  son  of  the  first  Lord  Tollemache  of  Helming- 
ham,  and  his  wife,  a  daughter  of  the  first  Lord  Egerton 
of  Tatton,  so  as  far  as  blood  went  they  had  reason  to  be 
satisfied,  and  as  far  as  I  could  gather  were  fairly  content. 
As  for  brain,  they  were  of  the  brainiest.  Lionel,  an  ex- 
scholar  of  Balliol,  wrote  much  for  the  Fortnightly,  and 
such  things  as  were  calculated  to  make  an  editor  shy,  he 
published  privately  and  presented  to  his  friends.  Of  such 

262 


Recollections  of  Biarritz 

a  kind  was  his  wonderful  book,  aptly  termed  by  him 
"  Stones  of  Stumbling."  One  chapter  of  this  remarkable 
brochure  eloquently  and  in  the  most  humane  fashion 
advocated  the  slaughter  of  the  incurable.  Lionel  was  one 
of  the  kindest  of  men,  and  this  suggested  slaughter  is  the 
last  thing  one  would  have  expected  of  him.  En  passant 
it  may  be  mentioned,  that  I  once  hazarded  a  pun  in  his 
presence,  whereon  he  turned  on  me  savagely,  muttering 
something  to  the  effect  that  I  was  incurable.  I  turned 
the  laugh  against  him  by  rushing  across  to  him  in  an 
attitude  of  terror  and  saying,  "  Incurable  do  you  say, 
and  shall  I  be  made  away  with  ?  "  It  was  the  last  time 
that  he  rounded  on  me  for  a  pun.  A  fact  not  the  least 
extraordinary  about  Lionel  Tollemache  was  that,  having 
himself  an  intellect  so  stupendous,  his  wife  was  almost 
equally  gifted,  and  it  was  a  pleasure  and  almost  a  revelation 
to  hear  those  two  wedded  intellects  hammering  out  some 
abstruse  point.  One  thing  which  some  people  might 
term  little  but  appealed  to  me  rather  as  proof  of  the  just- 
ness of  their  well-balanced  minds,  was  the  way  in  which 
each  preserved  his  or  her  separate  and  distinct  prece- 
dence. The  wife  of  an  Honourable  is  an  Honourable  on 
the  envelope,  but  her  precedence  at  a  dinner-party  as  a 
daughter-in-law  of  a  peer  is  very  much  below  that  which  she 
would  possess  were  she  a  daughter  rather  than  a  daughter- 
in-law.  Mrs.  Lionel  Tollemache  as  the  daughter  of  Lord 
Egerton  of  Tatton  was  both,  and  so  punctilious  was  she 
of  this  fact  that  I  have  seen  publications  jointly  written 
by  both  husband  and  wife  where  the  Honourable  was 
repeated  for  her  name  as  well  as  for  his.  I  cannot  recall 
any  similar  instance  seen  elsewhere. 

Whilst  talking  of  the  Egertons  of  Tatton  it  will  not  be 
out  of  place  to  tell  the  following  story.     In  after  years  it 

263 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

was  my  good  fortune  to  number  amongst  very  dear  friends 
those  kind  and  very  original  sisters,  Lady  Anna  Loftus, 
for  many  years  intimate  friend  and  Woman  of  the  Bed- 
chamber to  Queen  Victoria,  and  her  sister,  Lady  Catherine, 
who  had  married  her  cousin  Captain  Loftus,  Keeper  of  the 
Crown  Jewels  at  the  Tower  of  London.  Of  course,  as 
everyone  knew  who  had  the  advantage  of  her  friendship, 
Lady  Anna  was  one  of  the  most  original  and  plain-speaking 
of  women.  She  had  the  name  of  being  the  only  woman 
ever  created  who  could  have  been  a  Duchess  and  did  not 
care  about  it,  his  Grace  of  Marlborough  being  the  un- 
successful suitor.  Lady  Catherine  had  not  her  sister's 
originality,  but  she  had  a  kindliness  and  sweetness  which 
made  her,  if  less  a  personage,  more  beloved.  Now,  if  you 
please,  these  two  well-bred  and  unobtrusive  women  had  a 
third  sister,  the  Lady  Egerton  of  Tatton  of  the  day,  and  I 
shall  never  forget  my  astonishment  when,  as  a  boy,  I  wit- 
nessed the  following  scene  :  A  crowd  of  us  were  waiting  on 
the  pier  at  Calais  to  embark  on  the  cockle-boat  which  was 
to  convey  us  across  the  Channel.  There  was  much  crushing 
and  confusion,  and  a  lady  near  me  turned  to  a  giant  of  a 
footman  who  was  by  her  side,  and  said  angrily  :  "  Thomas, 
are  they  aware  that  it  is  Lady  Egerton  of  Tatton  who  is 
waiting  to  embark  ?  "  This  at  the  top  of  her  voice  :  what 
Thomas  thought  is  not  chronicled. 

Lionel  Tollemache  was  very  dictatorial  in  his  way,  and 
he  told  Mark  Pattison,  the  erudite  and  eccentric  Rector 
of  Lincoln,  that  by  all  means  he  must  know  me.  Mark 
Pattison  most  unwillingly  and  painfully  consented.  When 
Tollemache  told  me  of  this  I  was  absolutely  horror-struck. 
In  an  agony  I  recalled  what  I  had  felt  but  a  couple  of 
years  before,  when  the  accident  of  having  rescued  and 
brought  home  in  my  dog-cart  a  broken-limbed  lady 

264 


Recollections  of  Biarritz 

extricated  from  a  ditch  and  an  over-turned  tandem 
had  resulted  in  my  being  hurled  into  the  proximity  and 
acquaintance  of  a  real  live  Oxford  Professor.  That  was 
the  beginning  of  a  friendship  kindly  extended  to  me  by  the 
celebrated  Professor  Sir  Monier  Monier-Williams.  The 
broken-limbed  lady  eventually  became  his  daughter-in- 
law.  Undergraduates  are  not  partial  to  Professors.  We 
were  very  wary  in  those  days  of  those  who  knew  more  than 
ourselves.  That  was  why  we  mostly  remained  in  ignorance. 

Sir  Monier,  despite  his  Sanscrit,  was  a  comparatively 
facile  and  unfearsome  person.  But,  ye  gods,  what  was  to 
be  said  of  Mark  Pattison  ?  I  am  not  sure  that,  at  the  bare 
idea  of  meeting  him  I  did  not  take  to  my  bed  for  a  day 
or  two.  In  imagination  he  ran  neck  to  neck  with  Jowett, 
who,  (according  to  the  Oxford  legend)  taking  a  well-placed 
Oxford  undergrad  out  to  walk  with  him  one  day,  wandered 
on  and  on  with  the  unhappy  youth  in  dead  silence.  This 
silence  at  last  grew  on  the  youth's  nerves,  till  at  last  the 
patient  observed,  "  This  is  remarkably  fine  weather,  Sir, 
for  the  time  of  the  year."  Jowett  made  no  response,  but, 
as  he  parted  from  the  youth  at  his  door,  he  turned 
abruptly  and  said :  "  Now  I  think  of  it,  there  was  not 
much  in  that  remark  of  yours."  This  recollection  was 
not  stimulating  to  me,  and  I  awaited  with  terror  the 
inevitable  visit. 

That  you  may  understand  the  extent  of  my  terror  at 
meeting  Mark  Pattison,  you  must  realize  that,  although  I 
had  recently  taken  my  degree,  I  was  still  in  heart  and  soul 
an  undergraduate.  Moreover  Pattison  was  one  of  the 
shiniest  of  Oxford  luminaries,  and  I  had  had  little  experience 
in  playing  with  fire-light.  You  will  the  better  comprehend 
the  reasons  for  my  diffidence  when  you  read  this  subjoined 
account  of  the  intellectual  achievements  of  this  giant 

265 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

How  would  you  like  to  be  shut  up  with  such  a  man  beyond 
reach  of  a  chaperon  ? 

"  He  published  a  translation  of  Aquinas  on  '  St. 
Matthew  '  (1842),  and  two  Lives  of  English  Saints  ('  Stephen 
Langton  '  and  '  St.  Edmund  ')  in  the  series  edited  by  New- 
man. He  was  appointed  college  tutor  (1843),  and  as 
lecturer  and  examiner  established  a  great  reputation.  He 
was  appointed  Assistant  Commissioner  on  the  Inquiry  into 
Continental  Education  (1859).  ^e  became  Rector  of 
Lincoln  College  in  1861.  His  literary  output  included 
*  The  Present  State  of  Theology  in  Germany '  (1857), 
'  Learning  in  the  Church  of  England'  (1863),  'Popular 
Education  in  Prussia  '  (1862).  He  edited  Pope's  '  Essay 
on  Man'  (1869)  with  notes,  contributed  biographical 
notices  to  the  '  Encyclopaedia  Britannica,'  and  wrote  Lives 
of  *  Milton '  (1879)  and  '  I§aac  Casaubon  '  (1875),  the  latter 
being  perhaps  his  best  work.  Other  works  are  '  Memoirs  ' 
(1885),  and  editions  of  Pope's  *  Essays,  Satires  and  Epistles  ' 
(1872),  and  Milton's  'Sonnets'  (1883)." 

The  most  extraordinary  addendum  to  this  recollection 
is  that  scarcely  a  morning  for  full  six  weeks  passed  without 
seeing  dear  Mark  Pattison  sitting  by  me  as  I  partook  of  my 
late  breakfast.  My  terror  gradually  vanished.  He  made 
me  forget  that  I  had  so  lately  burst  from  the  undergraduate 
shell,  and  all  the  large  generosity  of  his  intellect  was  at  my 
service  for  the  asking.  I  may  add,  as  some  excuse  for  Mark 
Pattison  for  so  lowering  the  standard  of  his  acquaintance, 
that  there  was  always  a  suspicion  in  his  proffered  friendship 
to  me  of  Johnson's  celebrated  saying  regarding  Goldsmith  : 
"  an  inspired  idiot."  He  was  never  weary  of  asking  me 
concerning  what  he  termed  "  the  pedigree  of  a  thought." 
He  would  eagerly  inquire  :  "  Now,  how  on  earth  did  that 
occur  to  you  ?  "  and  such  like  interrogations. 

266 


Recollections  of  Biarritz 

At  Biarritz  I  had  the  privilege  of  first  meeting  Princess 
Frederica  of  Hanover,  one  of  the  most  courtly  and  regal 
looking  of  any  of  the  Royalties  I  have  subsequently  met. 
I  was  presented  to  Her  Royal  Highness  at  a  dinner-party 
to  which  Lady  Laura  Hampton  had  kindly  invited  me. 
Afterwards  the  Princess  herself  was  my  hostess  both  at 
Biarritz  and  at  the  beautiful  apartment  which  Queen 
Victoria  placed  at  her  disposal  in  Hampton  Court  Palace. 
She  most  graciously  presided,  as  did  the  Duchess  of  Albany 
on  the  previous  day,  at  performances  I  gave  at  the  request 
of  Prebendary  Ram  for  the  restoration  of  the  old  belfry 
at  Hampton  Court,  a  work  most  ably  helped  by  that  charm- 
ing and  kindly  hostess,  Lady  MacGregor,  whose  parties  at 
the  Palace  are  a  remembrance  to  all  who  are  happy  in 
knowing  her.  Her  beautiful  apartment  has  many  memen- 
toes of  her  distinguished  husband,  the  late  General  Sir 
Charles  MacGregor,  whose  gallant  career  is  especially 
associated  with  the  Afghan  campaign,  during  which  he  was 
Chief  of  the  Staff  to  Lord  Roberts. 

Princess  Frederica  has  great  charm,  and  her  husband, 
Baron  Pawel  von  Rammingen,  is  most  interesting  to  talk  to, 
and  an  indefatigable  host.  At  that  function  of  Lady 
Laura  Hampton's  I  was  the  only  commoner  present,  and 
I  remember  the  very  considerable  impression  it  made  on  me 
at  the  time  that,  although  each  member  of  the  party  must 
have  been  well  accustomed  to  meeting  Royalty,  and  that 
the  company  numbered  a  Cabinet  Minister  in  Lord  Cran- 
brook,  it  was  surprising  how  ill  at  ease  the  men  were  when 
addressed  by  the  Princess.  It  is  many  times  that  I  have 
noticed  the  same  thing  since.  The  presence  of  Royalty 
seems  to  abstract  from  people  the  capacity  to  be  natural.  It 
is  a  transmogrifying  influence,  but  a  transformation  for  the 
worse.  I  do  think  that  the  very  least  one  can  do  when  royal 

267 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

personages  are  kind  enough  to  notice  one  is  to  endeavour 
not  to  be  dull.  The  restrictions  of  Royalty  give  regal 
people  quite  enough  of  it  at  home,  without  coming  outside 
to  encounter  it ;  and  I  suppose  that  it  was  for  this  reason 
that  Her  Royal  Highness  was  disposed  to  address  herself 
to  me  at  some  length.  Our  English  Royalties  especially 
have  a  great  charm  of  manner  and  are  brought  up  to  endure 
boredom.  It  is  in  the  essence  of  their  nature  to  seem 
pleased,  and  if  there  is  any  difficulty  in  the  matter  it  arises 
less  from  the  personages  who  honour  us  than  from  the 
humanities  that  struggle  to  rise  to  the  occasion.  I  am  told 
that  the  late  Lord  Granville  was  an  especial  persona  grata 
to  Queen  Victoria  on  account  of  the  open  way  he  spoke  to 
her,  although  even  he,  thus  privileged,  was  too  much  of  a 
courtier  to  speak  when  he  was  not  spoken  to.  I  know  of 
the  wife  of  a  well-placed  official  who  throughout  her 
whole  lifetime  could  never  be  brought  to  remember  this 
useful  and  necessary  piece  of  Court  knowledge.  I  am  not 
certain  if  this  Royal  usage  would  not  be  of  inestimable 
advantage  as  a  sort  of  peace  protection  agency  in  domestic 
life.  It  would  certainly  save  a  vast  deal  of  verbal  difference. 
Others  of  interest  in  Biarritz  at  that  time  were  the  late 
Lord  and  Lady  Strathmore.  I  always  consider  the  latter 
as  one  of  the  best  bred  women  I  ever  met.  She  had  a  very 
great  charm  and  united  manners  of  great  distinction  with 
a  kindliness  of  nature  which  placed  all  deserving  people 
at  their  ease.  They  were  very  exclusive,  but,  once  free 
of  their  threshold,  you  had  everything  that  beautifies  the 
heartiest  of  welcome.  Of  Irish  people  I  recall  Lord  Kil- 
maine  and  his  beautiful  wife,  Lord  Avonmore  and  Sir  Allan 
and  Lady  Walsh.  The  Services  were  well  represented  by 
General  Sir  James  and  Lady  Sayer,  General  and  Mrs.  Patton- 
Bethune  of  Clayton  Priory,  Sussex  (he  was  Hon.  Colonel 

268 


Recollections  of  Biarritz 

of  the  78 th  Highlandeis),  and  Admiral  of  the  Fleet  Sir 
Charles  and  Lady  Harriet  Elliott.  In  addition  to  Lord  and 
Lady  Strathmore,  Scotland  was  represented  by  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Maxwell  Scott  of  Abbotsford  and  my  dear  old  friend 
Lady  Stuart-Menteth. 

One  must  not  forget  the  Due  de  San  Lucca  with  whom 
I  afterwards  travelled  in  Italy.  He  was  the  husband  of  a 
Spanish  Infanta,  aunt  of  King  Alfonso  and  a  cousin  of 
Madame  d'Arcos,  Lady-in-Waiting  for  so  many  years  to 
the  Empress  Eugenie.  In  some  way  also  the  Duke  was 
connected  with  the  late  Cardinal  Vaughan,  and  was  a  most 
interesting  personality.  As  he  knew  the  Empress  Eugenie 
long  before  her  marriage,  as  well  as  throughout  her  days 
of  sovereignty,  and  remembered  many  incidents  of  interest, 
he  was  far  from  being  a  dull  companion.  I  remember  a 
witticism  at  his  expense.  There  was  a  certain  lady  who  was 
distinctly  partial  to  him.  Another  lady  appeared  on  the 
scene,  who  was  not  infrequently  in  the  Duke's  society. 
Lady  Number  One  made  some  snappy  remark  concerning 
this,  to  which  a  friend  of  San  Lucca's  replied  :  "  Oh,  she 
is  his  cousin,  you  know."  "  Cousin  fiddlesticks !  "  the  lady 
retorted.  "  A  twentieth,  if  that."  "  On  the  contrary," 
said  the  Duke's  friend,  "  I  happen  to  know  her,  she  is  a 
first  cousin  once  removed."  "  I  call  her,"  sniffed  the  lady, 
"  a  cousin  never  removed  !  " 

Much  kindness  was  shown  to  me  at  Biarritz,  and  I  think 
I  was  the  first  bachelor  to  whom  in  those  very  particular 
and  proper  days  people  went  allowing  themselves  to  be 
oblivious  that  there  was  no  hostess,  for,  without  issuing 
any  invitations  whatsoever,  my  little  At  Homes  on  Thurs- 
day afternoons  were  never  by  any  means  empty. 

These  recollections  of  Biarritz  recall  to  me  what  might 
be  aptly  termed  "  A  Trio  of  Tragedy."  It  is  a  curious 

269 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

coincidence  that  two  of  Queen  Victoria's  most  trusted  of 
servitors,  for  each  of  whom  Her  late  Majesty  had  the  greatest 
esteem  and  affection,  and  who  were  in  themselves  the  most 
exemplary  of  people,  should  each  of  them  have  had  dis- 
tressing and  disastrous  experiences  with  reference  to  their 
children.  In  both  cases  the  heirs  had  married  absolutely 
outside  their  sphere,  and  in  each  case  there  was  divorce  for 
the  daughter.  I  refer  to  the  late  seventh  Duke  of  Grafton 
and  Jane,  Marchioness  of  Ely.  I  knew  well  the  children 
of  both,  and  will  here  record  my  recollections  of  an  occasion 
when  the  Duke's  son,  the  late  Lord  Euston,  asked  me  to 
dinner,  and  we  sat  up  talking  till  past  three.  I  will  tell 
you  what  we  talked  about. 

I  never  to  this  day  can  understand  how  under  any 
conditions  he  could  have  made  the  marriage  he  did  when  he 
was  young.  He  was  a  man  who  looked  every  inch  a  gentle- 
man, and  he  had  above  the  average  of  inches  so  to  look. 
To  talk  to,  he  was  a  most  interesting  man  of  the  world,  and 
yet  the  woman  he  married  was  low  in  every  conceivable 
sense,  and  a  terror  to  look  at.  It  is  many  and  many  a  time  I 
have  seen  this  "  Countess  of  Euston,"  as  she  magniloquently 
called  herself.  She  used  to  haunt  the  tables  at  Monte 
Carlo,  and  would  not  allow  the  croupiers  to  forget  that 
she  was  a  Countess.  I  hardly  blame  her,  for  otherwise  no 
sane  person  could  have  suspected  it.  At  the  dinner  that 
night  Euston  was  in  great  feather,  for,  after  years  of  waiting 
and  a  collection  of  the  large  funds  necessary,  the  case  was 
coming  on  whereby  he  hoped  to  get  rid  of  the  woman. 
It  had  been  expensive  work  to  collect  such  evidence  as 
would  make  his  application  for  nullity  of  marriage  a  success, 
but  his  lawyers  had  actually  succeeded  in  obtaining  evidence 
that  the  day  he  married  this  woman  she  was  herself  already 
wedded.  He  therefore  was  in  a  position  to  be  absolutely 

270 


Recollections  of  Biarritz 

confident  of  liberation.  He  was  naturally  in  high  spirits 
and  in  good  form,  and  told  me  many  an  interesting  thing 
of  the  much  he  had  seen  in  the  varied  life  he  had  lived. 
Looking  at  him  I  was  indeed  glad  that  he  would  thus  have 
a  chance  of  retrieving  so  terrible  a  mistake  and  being  able 
to  keep  up  the  position  of  his  distinguished  name.  Alas  ! 
the  terrible  blow  that  awaited  him  ;  for,  although  he  suc- 
ceeded in  proving  his  wife's  previous  marriage  and  that 
the  man  thus  married  was  alive  at  the  time,  it  came  out  in 
evidence  that  this  man  whom  she  had  married  had  then  a 
wife  living  and  that  thus  Euston's  bondage  must  stand, 
as  his  wife's  previous  ceremony  was  no  marriage  in  law. 
To  add  to  the  tragedy  of  Euston's  life,  the  beautiful 
woman  whom  he  would  have  married  had  he  been  free, 
and  who  so  long  remained  single,  had  become  a  wife  but 
a  short  time  before  Lady  Euston's  death  had  removed 
all  obstruction. 

The  other  two  in  my  Trio  of  Tragedy  are  Major  and 
Lady  Eleanor  Harbord.  They  were  at  Biarritz  at  the  time 
of  which  I  write,  and  it  was  painful  to  see  them  walking 
about,  none  taking  notice  of  them.  Years  afterwards,  Lady 
Eleanor  partially  recovered  a  portion  of  her  position.  As  a 
young  woman  she  was  extremely  beautiful,  and  had  a  child- 
like air  which  made  it  difficult  to  realize  the  heartless  role 
she  had  played.  Her  first  husband  was  FitzRoy  Eaton, 
of  Stetchworth  Park,  Cambridge,  whom  she  left  on  his 
death-bed  and  married  Harbord  three  weeks  after  his 
death.  At  that  time  is  was  considered  to  be  inhuman,  and 
not  only  that  but  absolutely  stupid,  for  the  end  was  not 
far  from  the  man  she  had  ceased  to  esteem,  and  she  gave 
him  time  to  alter  his  will,  a  proceeding  which  made  a  very 
great  financial-  difference  to  herself.  In  addition  to  this 
folly,  she  knew  when  she  married  Harbord  that  he  was 

271 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

practically  a  ruined  man,  certain  facts  connected  with 
cards  having  placed  him  beyond  the  pale,  so  that  his 
prefix  as  a  peer's  son  was  clearly  a  disputable  distinction. 
By  yet  a  third  marriage  the  woman  who  could  act  thus 
insanely  ended  her  life  under  the  name  of  Magniac.  With 
all  this,  Lady  Eleanor  was  one  of  the  most  charming  women 
I  have  ever  met,  and  a  dreamful  pianist.  Alas,  how  she 
wrecked  her  beautiful  life  ! 

Jane,  Lady  Ely's  daughter  is  a  charming  woman  and 
much  beloved  by  those  who  know  her.  I  was  once  at 
a  luncheon  when  Lady  Marion  Waller  and  I  were  the 
guests  of  Mrs.  Waldo  Sibthorp.  I  was  therefore  in  the 
presence  of  two  women  who  between  them  had  had  eight 
husbands.  Emily,  Lady  Ely,  in  christening  her  daughter 
Marion  was  possessed  with  the  gift  of  prophecy. 

Before  concluding  these  recollections  of  Biarritz  I  cannot 
avoid  telling  you  how  very  near  I  was  in  leaving  my  bones 
interred  upon  those  sunny  Basque  shores. 

It  happened  in  this  wise,  or  should  I  not  rather  say  it 
almost  happened.  Picture  to  yourself  a  grand  ball  at 
Biarritz.  The  world  and  his  wife  were  there  and  little 
wifeless  me  amongst  them.  Looking  for  a  partner,  the 
devil  led  me  up  an  out-of-the-way  staircase,  and  there, 
seated  on  the  stairs,  I  recognized  a  very  beautiful  and 
popular  young  matron.  She  was  in  a  vortex  of  some 
difficulty,  for  a  well-known  Prince,  whose  name  as  a  pre- 
cautionary measure  I  think  it  expedient  not  to  mention, 
was  in  the  act  of  endeavouring  to  kiss  her  arm.  He  had 
forcibly  endeavoured  to  elevate  the  sleeve  which  in  those 
days  was  slightly  more  liberal  than  it  is  at  present.  It 
was  at  this  instant  that  the  devil  unfortunately  prompted 
me  to  intervene. 

I  no  sooner  took  this  funny  picture  in  than  I  promptly 

272 


Recollections  of  Biarritz 

proceeded  to  decamp,  for  I  was  strongly  persuaded  that  at 
such  moments  the  average  woman  is  her  own  best  guardian. 
Anyway  I  went. 

The  exit  from  this  staircase  passed  through  the  buffet, 
and  most  unfortunately  for  me  I  lingered  in  it,  and  had 
just  told  a  story  to  a  number  of  people,  when  in  the  very 
midst  of  considerable  laughter,  the  Prince  and  the  lady 
enter.  He  at  once  flew  to  the  conclusion  that  I  had  been 
telling  the  company  of  what  I  had  seen  with  the  result  of 
hilarity  at  his  expense.  Before  five  minutes  were  over  he 
had  sent  a  friend  of  his  with  the  invitation  to  me  to  meet 
him  at  dawn  that  he  might  satisfy  his  besmirched  honour. 
This  was  seriosity  with  a  vengeance. 

I  at  once  sought  the  counsel  of  two  friends,  each  of  whom 
was  at  the  head  of  his  profession,  and  there  were  no  men 
more  capable  by  their  reputation  and  position  of  tendering 
the   right   advice.     Gathering   Admiral   of   the   Fleet    Sir 
Charles   Elliott  and  General  Patton-Bethune,    Colonel  of 
the  78th  Highlanders,  together,  I  put  them  in  possession 
of  the   facts,  and  asked  them  should  I  have  to  fight  so 
unnecessary  and  stupid  a  duel.     With  extreme  reluctance 
(for  I  know  they  had  consideration  for  myself  personally 
and  for  my  youth)  they  were  of  unanimous  opinion  that 
the  duel  would  have  to  be  fought.     Almost  anywhere  else, 
they  considered,  it  might  not  perhaps  be  a  necessity,  but 
here  in  Biarritz,  hard  by  the  Spanish  frontier  where  duelling 
was  binding  on  gentlemen,  it  could  not  possibly  appear 
that  an  Englishman  showed  the  white  feather.     This  to 
me  was  final,  and  a  most  unwelcome  finality  at  that.     I 
clearly  foresaw  and  realized  that  there  was  nothing  between 
me  and  certain  death  unless  inspiration  saved  me.     The 
Prince  was  deadly  with  both  sword  and  pistol,    and   had 
already  killed  three  men  in  duels,  besides  many  he  had 

273  18 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

wounded,  and  for  this  reason  Lady  Strathmore  and  one  or 
two  other  prominent  English  ladies  absolutely  refused  to 
send  him  cards  or  in  any  way  recognize  his  existence.  It 
was  a  matter  of  common  notoriety  that  the  Prince,  received 
as  he  was  in  most  capitals  in  Europe,  was  annoyed  that 
he  was  shunned  and  completely  ignored  by  Lord  and  Lady 
Strathmore. 

At  this  critical  juncture  I  bethought  me  of  her  ladyship 
as  a  possible  salvation.  Going  up  to  her  in  the  ballroom, 
I  said,  "  Lady  Strathmore,  I  want  you  to  do  me  a  very 
great  service,  and  to  add  to  your  kindness  by  not  asking  me 
my  reasons,  but  to  believe  from  me  that  I  should  not  seek 
your  assistance  unless  there  was  the  greatest  possible  need 
for  it.  I  want  you  to  honour  me  by  letting  me  take  you 
in  to  supper  :  I  want  you  also — now  please  prepare  for  a 
shock — I  want  you,  should  a  certain  Prince  whom  you  don't 
know,  happen  to  be  at  the  table,  to  be  particularly  gracious 
and  kind  to  him.  I  feel  sure  you  will  not  refuse  me."  To 
my  delight  and  relief  she  actually  consented.  I  knew  well 
that  had  I  told  her  that  the  Prince  had  challenged  me,  that 
even  if  she  had  wished  to  save  me,  she  could  never  have 
been  actress  enough  to  have  been  civil  or  decent  to  him. 
There  is  no  doubt  she  suspected  something,  or  she  would 
never  have  consented  to  have  spoken  to  the  man,  but 
whatever  suspicions  she  harboured,  they  must  surely  have 
been  infinitely  wide  of  the  mark.  I  then  went  to  the  lady 
who  had  been  the  innocent  cause  of  all  this  perilous  pother, 
and  told  her  of  the  challenge  and  of  what  I  had  done,  and 
entreated  her  by  all  her  gods  to  arrange  with  the  Prince 
to  take  her  in  to  supper  and  to  seek  the  table  behind  the 
door  and  to  speak  instantly  with  Lady  Strathmore  and  then 
take  her  seat  at  the  table,  and  the  Prince  would  thereby  be 
forced  to  follow ;  she  could  then  leave  the  rest  to  me,  but 

274 


Recollections  of  Biarritz 

she  was  on  all  accounts  to  laugh  at  all  my  stories  whether 
she  found  them  amusing  or  not.  I  told  her  that  she  was  to 
keep  a  look-out  on  me  until  she  saw  me  go  in  to  supper, 
and  then  to  follow  as  soon  as  possible.  She  quite  under- 
stood that  my  life  depended  on  all  this,  and  I  hardly  fancy 
that  it  was  a  pleasant  consideration. 

Everything  happened  as  planned.  The  two  ladies  talked 
away  for  a  minute,  and  then  the  younger  woman  naturally 
sank  into  a  seat  continuing  what  she  was  saying  ;  the  Prince, 
affecting  not  to  see  me,  reluctantly  followed.  To  cut 
matters  short  I  don't  think  I  was  ever  at  a  more  convivial 
supper.  It  was  a  little  table  for  four.  I  dug  up  all  the 
best  and  the  screamiest  yarns  in  my  granaries  of  mirth. 
The  Prince  was  absolutely  forced  to  laugh,  and  it  was  not 
long  before  he  was  genuinely  enjoying  himself.  It  was 
patent  that  he  was  much  influenced  by  Lady  Strathmore's 
notice,  and  in  fact  it.  seemed  as  if  her  sudden  change  of 
manner  had  put  everything  else  out  of  his  head.  It  meant 
a  great  deal  to  him  as  Biarritz  society  was  then  constituted, 
and  he  made  the  most  of  it  and  was  at  his  best  with  her 
and  incidentally  with  us.  Of  course  I  treated  him  with 
that  forgetfulness  of  all  else  which  men  of  the  world  assume 
in  the  presence  of  ladies.  I  managed  to  tell  Lady  Strath- 
more  to  take  the  lady  off  with  her  when  we  rose,  so  that 
I  might  have  just  half  a  minute  with  the  Prince.  As  they 
moved  I  said  to  him  :  "  Now,  Prince,  you'll  have  to  re- 
member those  stories,  as  they  are  the  last  you  are  likely  to 
hear  from  me  ;  I  think  we  should  be  much  wiser  if  we  had 
a  hot  breakfast  together  to-morrow  instead  of  the  cold  sands. 
You  know  men  of  the  world  and  gentlemen  don't  damage 
each  other  in  an  affaire  de  cceur"  I  breakfasted  with  the 
Prince  next  morning ! 

275  18* 


XXI 

THE  LATE  LORD  BYRON 
(GEORGE  FREDERICK  WILLIAM,  NINTH  PEER) 

A  Unique  Individuality,  Different  and  Distinct.  A  Peer's  Effacement — a  Writer's 
Anxiety  for  Anonymity.  Lord  Byron  passes  much  of  his  Life  under  Other 
Names.  Reasons  for  according  him  a  Special  and  Separate  Place.  That 
Quaint  Person  the  Dowager  Lady  Combermere.  The  Meeting  of  Two  Boys 
in  their  Teens.  Birth  of  a  Friendship  of  Forty  Years.  Concerning  Social 
Manners.  An  Outspoken  Duchess.  Byron,  a  Dangerous  and  Dissolute  Char- 
acter. A  Landlady's  Apprehension  of  Housing  such  a  Lothario.  Her  Request 
to  move  on.  An  Hotel  Incident.  We  are  counted  as  Suspicious  People. 
Examination  of  Underlinen.  A  Word  to  Byron's  Detractors.  Names  that 
invoke  Curiosity — Wellington,  Nelson,  Byron.  Word-Pictures  of  these 
Men.  Captain  Roland  le  Strange  of  Hunstanton.  Story  of  the  late  Lord 
Nelson.  A  Garden  Party  at  the  Old  Hall.  Apsley  House  and  its  At  Homes. 
Byron's  Publications  on  the  Reform  of  the  Lords.  Our  Flights  to  Essex.  Lord 
Gage  amuses  himself  with  the  Dead  March.  I  address  the  House  of  Lords. 
The  Voice  from  Heaven.  The  late  Lord  Zouche.  Byron's  Encounter  with 
an  Ass — His  Ready  Wit.  Augustus  Byron's  Camel  Score.  The  Way  to  be 
Witty.  If  Love  be  the  Lustre  of  Life,  Friendship  assuredly  is  its  Sheen. 
Tilbury  as  Arcadia.  Byron  discusses  Inspiration.  He  Writes  for  The  Times 
within  a  Few  Moments  of  his  Death. 

IT  has  occasionally  befallen  me,  very  rarely  I  allow,  to 
come  across  an  individual  who  by  rights  should  be 
placed  in  a  class  quite  apart  from  other  men.  For  in 
truth  he  is  like  no  other.  He  should,  in  fact,  have  a 
compartment  to  himself.  There  are  some  men  who  by 
their  mental  endowments,  their  erudition,  experience,  and 
by  no  means  least  of  all  their  individuality,  compel  notice 
as  you  know  them,  and  engender  respect  when  rightfully 
comprehended.  It  almost  certainly  happens  with  such  men 

276 


The  Late  Lord  Byron 

that  they  evince  a  shrinking  from,  rather  than  a  scrambling 
for,  fame.  Notoriety  is  abhorrent  to  them,  and  their 
modesty  would  seem  to  make  them  dubious  of  their 
eligibility  for  public  esteem.  It  is  one  of  the  weaknesses 
of  their  character  that  they  are  unaware  of  their  own 
utility,  and  for  this  reason  the  world  is  a  loser  by  their 
reticence,  as  are  they  themselves,  in  that  they  are  without 
the  experience  of  the  ecstasy  of  giving.  Such  a  man  was 
my  life-long  friend,  the  late  Lord  Byron.  It  is  with  sense 
of  bereavement  that  I  write  of  him,  and  make  public 
record  of  abilities  and  peculiarities  which  place  him  quite 
outside  the  curriculum  of  the  commonplace  ;  for  of  a  truth 
his  life  was  charged  with  pathos,  as  indeed  it  was  lit  with 
humour. 

I  am  quite  prepared  that  certain  readers,  conning  these 
words,  and  this  meed  of  praise  I  lay  around  his  memory, 
will  incredulously  smile.  These  critics  should  remember 
that  a  man  rarely  gives  of  his  best  to  mediocrity,  and  that 
had  they  perhaps  been  more  in  spirit  with  him,  this  in- 
ordinately sensitive  man  would  have  made  a  better  response. 
Even  as  he  tucked  away  his  coronet  out  of  sight,  so  was 
it  his  wont  and  will  to  conceal  from  others  thoughts 
which  he  was  too  modest  and  retiring  to  consider  of  interest 
or  of  value. 

I  can  afford  to  smile  on  criticism  engendered  by 
ignorance.  For  most  of  my  life  I  have  known  this  man  : 
was  fortunate  in  his  friendship  and  affection :  our  souls 
were  very  open  with  each  other,  and  I  have  full  reason 
to  know  whereof  I  write. 

In  this  endeavour  of  mine  to  place  on  record  remem- 
brances of  a  man  altogether  different  from  his  fellows,  I 
need  not  at  the  outset  go  further  than  record  that  he  was 
a  voluminous  writer,  of  whose  identity  no  editor  was 

277 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

cognisant.  So  great  was  his  dislike,  I  may  safely  say 
abhorrence,  of  trading  on  an  illustrious  name,  that  he 
would  not  attain  a  desired  publication  on  the  strength 
of  such  surreptitious  aid  at  the  expense  of  the  worth  of 
the  work.  He  therefore  submitted  his  manuscript  under 
names  other  than  his  own,  and  consequently  ensured  an 
impartiality  of  verdict. 

Secondly,  this  strange  man,  instead  of  enjoying  life  under 
the  shelter  of  a  name  illustrious  in  literature,  knowingly 
chose  to  pass  quite  a  fourth  of  his  life  under  other  names. 
By  this  means  he  enjoyed  that  degree  of  seclusion  and 
quiet  which  were  the  necessities  of  his  spirit.  I  shall 
hereafter  tell  how  the  publicity,  the  notoriety,  and  the 
vulgar  curiosity  of  the  public  practically  compelled  him 
to  this  course.  For  the  moment  I  content  myself  with 
stating  the  fact. 

Thirdly,  as  an  additional  reason  for  the  distinctive  place 
I  accord  to  the  late  Lord  Byron,  I  may  mention  that, 
although  at  times  we  have  been  weeks  and  weeks  together, 
either  I  with  him  in  Essex,  or  he  with  me  elsewhere,  I  do 
not  think  it  is  possible  for  me  to  recall  one  single  occasion 
which  did  not  leave  me  the  richer  in  knowledge,  thought, 
or  suggestion.  His  range  of  information  was  wonderful. 
He  not  only  was  exceptionally  informed  in  most  varieties 
of  architecture,  but  had  himself  personally  visited  and 
inspected  most  specimens  that  were  great  or  distinctive 
in  the  land  of  his  birth.  He  was  also  at  home  with 
archaeology,  and  his  knowledge  of  heraldry  and  the  ramifi- 
cations of  family  relationships  made  it  impossible  for  him 
to  be  dull  on  the  many  occasions  when  there  was  mention 
of  men  of  note.  With  all  this,  and  his  pride  in  the  pedigree 
of  our  nation's  progress,  with  all  his  veneration  for  the 
beautiful  homesteads  of  our  land,  and  the  fact  that  he 

278 


The  Late  Lord  Byron 

himself  represented  a  name  illustrious  in  many  countries 
other  than  his  own,  he  was  by  no  means  a  Tory  or  even  a 
Conservative,  but  a  moderate  Liberal  of  a  safe  species. 

Fourthly,  I  may  mention  that,  a  peer  from  his  boyhood, 
he  had  been  throughout  his  life  a  steady  attendant  in 
the  House  of  which  he  was  a  member,  and  there  were  few 
of  its  forms,  procedures  or  customs  with  which  he  was 
not  accurately  familiar. 

For  these  reasons,  and  others  which  you  may  gather 
as  you  read,  I  place  Lord  Byron  amongst  the  very  few  quite 
distinct  and  absolutely  different  men  I  have  chanced  to 
meet.  In  no  way  did  he  ever  act  as  would  the  ordinary 
man.  He  was  altogether  exceptional,  and  that  by  no  means 
because  of  an  aim  towards  originality,  but  by  reason  of  the 
special  structure  of  his  mind.  These  words  are  written 
by  one  who  has  passed  through  life  observant  of  his  fellow- 
men.  For  him  the  wide-leaved  book  of  humanity  has  been 
a  folio  of  absorbing  interest.  What  vast  brain  the  Creator 
must  have  to  make  so  many  men  and  each  so  diverse  ! 
I  have  had  moments  when  my  beloved  poets  have  been 
around  me,  and  with  them  I  lose  all  sense  of  the  world's 
great  throb,  and  am  away  with  them  beyond  the  reach  of 
life's  antagonistic  littleness,  but  this  aloofness  at  certain 
times  only  serves  to  engender  accumulative  alertness.  At 
these  moments,  when  the  poet  is  submerged  in  the  man 
of  the  world,  I  love  my  fellow-men.  In  this  latter  phase 
I  am  increasingly  of  opinion  that  any  well-bred  man 
cosmopolitan  and  unbiassed  must  have  a  very  sluggish  soul 
who  cannot  find  something  good  in  the  majority  of  men. 
None  are  begotten  altogether  bad,  any  more  than  they 
are  born  intrinsically  good ;  and  it  is  the  clear  and  whole- 
some vision  that  discerns  the  modicum  of  gold  amid  the 
multitude  of  dross.  As  for  poor  Byron's  dross,  it  largely 

279 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

consisted  in  an  inborn  obstinacy.  Neither  entreaties  of 
friend,  nor  trumpet  of  archangel,  could  move  him  when 
once  he  had  otherwise  determined.  It  was  then  only 
that  his  argumentative  mind  seemed  to  have  no  influence 
on  his  understanding,  but  the  fact  that  I  realized  the 
impossibility  of  moving  him  on  such  occasions,  and  my 
life-long  custom  of  giving  him  his  head,  accounted  in  no 
little  measure  for  the  longevity  of  our  friendship.  But 
can  you  recall  anyone  whom  you  have  ever  met,  however 
capable  and  cherished  they  are,  whose  nature  and  character 
do  not  furnish  you  with  some  such-like  flaw  ?  If  you  go 
about  expecting  perfection,  you  are  likely  to  be  the  most 
miserable  of  men,  especially  if  you  should  add  matrimony 
to  your  experiments.  As  in  the  beauties  of  nature  I  look 
not  for  perfection,  (there  will  be  the  eternal  telegraph- 
post  that  destroys  my  photograph ;)  so  least  of  all  in  love 
and  friendship  do  I  look  for  the  honey  without  the  fly. 
George  Frederick  William,  ninth  Baron  Byron,  the 
subject  of  these  remembrances,  was  the  elder  son  of  the 
late  Hon.  Frederick  Byron,  Barrister  at  Law  and  Fellow 
of  All  Souls  College,  Oxford,  second  son  of  the  seventh 
peer.  My  friend  was  therefore  grandson  of  the  first  cousin 
and  successor  of  the  poet.  Frederick  Byron  and  his  elder 
brother,  George  Anson,  eighth  peer,  married  sisters.  They 
were  daughters  of  the  Rev.  William  Wescomb  of  Thrumpton 
Hall,  Nottingham,  and  Langf  ord  Park,  Essex,  of  which  latter 
living  he  was  rector.  This  opulent  squarson  was  also  patron 
of  Thrumpton,  a  living  now  held  by  his  grandson,  the 
present  peer,  who  had  previously  been  rector  of  Langford. 
Mr.  Wescomb  had  one  other  daughter,  who  married  Lord 
Frederick  FitzRoy,  son  of  the  fifth  Duke  of  Grafton.  On 
Mr.  Wescomb's  death  he  left  the  Thrumpton  estate  to  his 
eldest  daughter,  Lady  Byron,  his  Langford  property  to 

280 


THE    LATE    LORD    BYRON. 


[To  face  page  280. 


The  Late  Lord  Byron 

Mrs.  Byron,  and  a  considerable  amount  in  money  to  the 
younger  daughter,  Lady  Frederick.  Lady  Byron  had 
no  children,  and  consequently  on  the  death  of  her  husband, 
the  peerage  devolved  on  her  nephew,  my  late  friend. 
Each  of  these  three  daughters  of  Mr.  Wescomb  lived  to 
be  well  over  eighty,  and  it  is  a  regret  to  me  that  I  never 
took  down  word  for  word  what  Byron  so  often  told  me, 
but  as  far  as  I  can  recollect  I  think  I  am  right  in  saying 
that  so  pronounced  was  longevity  in  the  Wescomb  family 
that  four  generations  from  Lucy,  Lady  Byron,  brought 
the  ancestral  proprietorship  in  the  Thrumpton  estates 
back  to  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne,  and  I  remember  my 
friend  adding  that  he  knew  but  of  one  other  instance  of 
similar  length  of  life  in  concurrent  generations  as  evinced 
in  the  family  of  Sir  Thomas  Barrett-Lennard,  who  recently 
died  over  ninety  years  of  age,  where  six  generations 
brought  him  back  to  the  reign  of  Charles  II.  The  late 
Lord  Byron  was  educated  at  Harrow,  as  was  the  poet,  and 
like  him  he  succeeded  to  the  family  honours  whilst  he  was 
yet  a  boy. 

The  first  time  that  Byron  and  I  ever  met,  inaugurating 
thereby  a  close  and  altogether  confidential  friendship  of 
forty  years,  was  at  the  house  of  that  quaint  antique  eccen- 
tricity, the  Dowager  Viscountess  Combermere.  She  was 
the  third  wife  and  eventual  widow  of  the  celebrated  Field- 
Marshal  whose  laurels  were  won  in  the  Peninsula.  She 
considered  herself  very  much  the  Viscountess,  and  liked 
you  to  remember  the  fact.  She  kept  up  a  sort  of  state 
and  miniature  Court  of  toadies  and  admirers  in  her  house 
in  Belgrave  Square.  She  was  mainly  kept  alive  by  the 
solicitude  of  her  step-daughter  Mrs.  Hunter,  and  my 
recollections  of  her  are  mostly  contained  in  a  picture  of 
an  old  lady  enthroned  in  a  sort  of  chair  of  state,  whereto 

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Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

the  adorers  deferentially  approached.  I  remember  other- 
wise little  remarkable  about  her,  nor  dwells  there  with  me 
the  faintest  re-echo  of  a  sharp  crisp  saying  nor  the  savour 
of  such  wit  as  not  infrequently  acerbates  age.  Byron  and 
I  were  then  in  our  teens,  and  were  duly  overwhelmed  in 
such  distinguished  company.  As  strangers  who  found 
themselves  free  of  a  life-buoy  in  a  disconcerting  sea  we 
joined  forces  and  made  whispered  comments  on  the 
strange  scene  before  us,  when  suddenly  we  were  startled 
by  hearing  the  shrill  pipings  of  the  old  lady  as  she  quite 
audibly  inquired,  "  And  who  is  this  Lord  Byron  ?  I 
thought  the  Poet  had  no  son."  She  held  her  peace  for  a 
moment,  looked  round  the  room,  and  said  quite  crossly, 
"  Can  none  of  you  answer  me  ?  >:  Whereon  I  deferentially 
crept  up  to  her  and  said,  "  The  Poet  had  no  son,  Lady 
Combermere,  but  that  did  not  prevent  him  from  having 
a  cousin."  She  stared  at  me  for  a  second  or  two  and  then 
began  to  laugh,  and  so  did  everyone  else  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  unfortunate  Byron.  She  then  turned  on  me 
again  and  said,  "  You  seem  to  know  all  about  it  ;  come 
here  and  tell  me  how  it  is  that  this  man  is  Lord  Byron. 
I  always  thought  there  was  no  such  thing  anywhere  as  a 
Lord  Byron  now  that  Childe  Harold  is  dead."  "  When 
the  Poet  died,  Lady  Combermere,  he  was  succeeded  by 
his  first  cousin,  who  became  seventh  Baron.  The  present 
peer  is  the  grandson  of  that  first  cousin."  "  Oh,  that 
makes  it  plain  enough,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  but 
where's  he  been  all  this  time  that  one's  heard  nothing  of 
him  ?  "  "  Oh,  most  of  the  time  he  was  not  in  existence," 
whereupon  everybody  laughed,  during  which  Byron  seized 
the  opportunity  and  hurriedly  paid  his  respects  to  the 
old  lady  and  scooted  for  all  he  knew.  After  he  had  gone 
her  Ladyship,  turning  on  us,  said,  "  Who's  that  young 

282 


The  Late  Lord  Byron 

man  ?  "  I  said  very  icily  to  her,  "  That's  Lord  Byron, 
I  don't  suppose  he  cares  much  for  the  conversation," 
whereupon  the  old  lady  turned  testily  on  her  step-daughter 
and  said,  "  I  can't  think  why  some  of  you  did  not  tell  me 
before  the  man  went."  This  erratic  old  lady  survived 
till  the  year  1890,  when  she  expired  in  her  ninetieth  year. 

In  this  strange  guise  commenced  a  new  friendship  for 
two  men  on  the  eve  of  entering  life.  A  few  years  after- 
wards each  of  us  matriculated  at  Christ  Church,  Oxford, 
and  for  some  time  after  taking  our  degrees  shared  rooms 
together.  From  those  days  to  that  of  his  death  there  was 
an  interchange  of  thought  and  a  fusion  of  many  interests 
which  have  left  with  me  no  single  memory  of  discord, 
difference  or  distrust. 

The  foregoing  scene,  which  I  have  endeavoured  to 
render,  was  one  of  many  such  which  that  unfortunate 
man  had  to  endure.  If  ever  man  had  to  pay  the  penalty 
for  blood  relationship  with  genius,  that  man  was  assuredly 
George,  ninth  Lord  Byron,  and  he  was  the  constant  sufferer 
from  a  custom  which  almost  exclusively  belongs  to  the 
upper  classes  whereby  those  upper  classes  consider  it  to 
be  good  manners  to  make  audible  comments  concerning 
the  objects  of  their  curiosity  right  within  the  hearing 
of  those  unhappy  people  themselves.  It  is  scores  of  times 
that  I  have  seen  a  Duchess  raise  her  lorgnettes  full  on  an 
unfortunate  man  entering  a  ball-room  as  she  turned  on 
some  friend  near  her  with  the  remark,  "  And  who's  that 
man  ?  "  If  it  should  prove  to  be  a  name  or  person  of 
whom  she  knew,  there  seemed  little  to  prevent  her  code 
of  manners  from  pursuing  the  subject  to  the  point  of 
personality  within  earshot  of  the  unfortunate  martyr. 
Your  grocer's  wife  may  have  vulgarities  in  other  directions, 
but,  so  far  as  I  have  heard  fron  Dickens  and  others,  neither 

283 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

she  nor  the  butcher's  spouse  carries  such  ill-breeding  to 
such  an  extent.  The  Duchess  of  Marlborough,  widow 
of  the  seventh  Duke,  was  a  notable  offender  in  this 
respect ;  her  Grace  was  richly  endowed  with  a  genius 
for  outspokenness. 

Now  why  did  this  strange  man  elect  to  pass  so  much 
of  his  life  under  names  other  than  his  own  ?  Later  on  I 
shall  allude  to  the  public  curiosity  concerning  the  present 
holders  of  three  well-known  names.  For  the  present 
let  me  tell  you  two  incidents  which  accentuated  the 
distaste  experienced  by  a  sensitive  man  in  being  the  target 
of  public  notice.  One  day,  approaching  Bond  Street 
from  my  home,  Byron  suddenly  said,  "  Do  you  mind 
coming  with  me  to  Marshall  and  Snelgrove  ?  my  mother 
has  asked  me  to  do  something  for  her  there."  So  accord- 
ingly we  went,  and  I  wish  we  had  never  entered  the  place. 
When  Byron  gave  his  name  some  people  unfortunately 
overheard  it,  and  the  way  they  stared  and  mobbed  was 
beyond  belief.  I  could  never  have  thought  such  a  thing 
possible.  This  was  a  sample  of  what  to  my  own  know- 
ledge often  occurred,  and  it  is  not  an  agreeable  experience 
for  a  man  who  has  done  nothing  to  be  audibly  contrasted 
with  one  who  has  done  everything.  The  most  callous  soul 
would  feel  it,  for  it  is  not  always  one's  fault,  for  so  at  least 
I  feel  it,  that  one  is  not  as  good  as  one's  father.  It  is  one's 
misfortune.  And  why  place  yourself  in  a  position  to  have 
that  unfortunate  fact  rubbed  into  you  ?  But  if  you  happen 
not  to  be  a  callous  man,  but  one  exceptionally  sensitive, 
you  can  imagine  what  such  notoriety  thrust  upon  you  is 
both  in  its  experience  and  its  effect. 

Resuming  our  walk  down  to  White's,  it  was  only 
natural  that  Byron  should  say  :  "  Let's  go  off  to  Essex." 
We  were  very  much  accustomed  to  going  off  to  Essex, 

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The  Late  Lord  Byron 

but  we  much  preferred  going  to  some  quiet  place  than  to 
turning  up  at  Langford.  Consequently  in  a  couple  of 
days  we  found  ourselves  in  diggings  in  a  diminutive 
hamlet.  We  had  certainly  reached  a  region  of  quiet, 
but  wait !  After  we  had  been  there  some  days  we  told 
the  landlady,  a  most  kindly  and  considerate  person,  that 
we  would  be  away  all  the  following  day  and  should  not 
require  any  lunch.  We  were  intent,  as  was  frequently 
the  case,  on  examining  some  old  church  or  ruin.  "  Oh," 
said  the  landlady,  "  I  shall  take  the  opportunity,  my 
Lord,  of  going  over  to  see  my  cousin.  She  has  a  farm  some 
distance  away,  I  do  not  often  get  a  free  day  to  see  her." 
Then  as  she  removed  the  debris  of  breakfast,  she  added  : 
"  I  think  your  Lordship  would  like  her,  as  she's  a  most 
educated  woman,  and  has  done  a  great  deal  of  reading. 
I  think,  except  of  course  the  Rectory,  she's  about  the  most 
educated  person  round  these  parts.  I  can't  say  much 
for  Squire  Thorneycroft,  for  he  hunts  all  day  and  sleeps 
all  night,  leaving  out  time  of  course  for  his  breakfasts  and 
dinners." 

On  our  return  from  that  ruin,  we  noticed  a  very  marked 
change  in  our  landlady.  She  was  morose  and  monosyllabic. 
Next  morning  she  thumped  the  breakfast  on  the  table  in 
a  manner  which  was  danger  to  her  delf .  Finally  she  gave 
us  notice  to  go.  She  had  been  with  her  well-educated 
cousin  and  had  found  out  that  Lord  Byron  was  a  dreadful 
man  whose  poems  were  of  such  a  dissolute  character  that  he 
had  to  live  out  of  England,  as  no  decent  house  here  would 
receive  him.  In  a  talk  I  had  with  the  woman,  my  efforts 
to  enlighten  her  and  make  her  understand  that  the  poet 
of  whom  she  spoke  had  been  dead  for  over  half  a  century 
were  of  no  avail.  She  again  repeated  all  her  high-falutin' 
glorifications  of  her  well-read  cousin  who  had  told  her 

285 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

and  could  not  possibly  be  mistaken.  Is  it  a  wonder  that 
Byron,  when  he  moved  on,  did  so  under  the  name  of 
Mr.  Bryon,  a  cognomen  which  contained  the  letters  of 
Byron  transposed  ? 

One  day  in  early  autumn  I  found  myself  in  London 
for  a  night  en  route  for  the  Moors.  Walking  up  Bond 
Street  I  came  face  to  face  with  Byron,  who  happened  to 
be  similarly  passing  through.  He  made  me  promise  to 
dine  with  him  that  night  at  the  Great  Western  Hotel, 
Paddington,  where  he  was  staying.  I  did  not  write  this 
address,  as  I  made  sure  to  remember  it.  What  was  my 
consternation  on  arriving  at  the  Hotel  to  find  that  there 
was  no  such  person  as  Lord  Byron  staying  there.  I  made 
the  office  people  look  again  and  again,  declaring  that  I 
was  sure  he  was  there  as  I  was  engaged  to  dine  with  him. 
At  this  juncture  Byron  rushes  up  to  me  saying  that  he 
believed  he'd  forgotten  to  tell  me  that  he  was  stopping  there 
under  the  name  of  Bryon.  Whereon,  to  the  visible  sur- 
prise of  the  office  people,  he  took  me  in  to  dinner.  We 
had  hardly  sat  down  and  were  no  further  than  the  fish 
when,  glancing  up  at  the  glass  door,  Byron  said  :  "  I  wonder 
what  those  people  are  looking  at  ?  "  Whereupon  I  began 
to  watch  that  glass  door  and  noticed  that  a  succession  of 
people  came  and  looked  at  us,  and  finally  the  manager 
came  and  had  a  good  stare.  We  noticed  that  the  men  were 
very  careless  in  their  waiting,  and  neither  their  manner 
nor  their  speech  were  very  civil.  By  the  time  the  savoury 
appeared  there  was  a  marked  change  :  the  waiters  could 
not  do  enough  for  us,  and  to  crown  matters  the  manager 
came  in  with  a  couple  of  boxes  of  cigars  and  begged  our 
acceptance  of  a  choice  weed.  "  What  does  all  this  mean  ?  " 
said  my  host.  "  I  tell  you  what  it  means,"  I  answered,  "  it 
means  that  the  management  has  been  up  in  your  bedroom 

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The  Late  Lord  Byron 

rootling  about  amongst  your  linen,  and  that  instead  of 
being  a  suspicious  person  they  have  found  out  that  you  are 
really  Byron,  and  they  are  endeavouring  to  make  amends 
for  their  incivility."  "  Rubbish  !  "said  Byron,  "  I  don't 
believe  a  word  of  that !  "  "  Well,"  I  said, "  go  up  to  your 
bedroom.  If  you  hurry  you'll  be  in  time  to  see  them 
putting  away  your  nighties  and  things."  He  went,  and 
presently  returned,  his  face  beaming  :  "  You're  right," 
he  said,  "  I  found  them  putting  away  all  my  duds." 

One  time,  staying  in  an  Essex  village  under  the  name 
of  Mr.  Byron,  a  man  asked  him  was  he  any  relation  to 
Lord  Byron.  "  Well,  it's  the  same  name,  isn't  it  ?  All 
the  Byrons  I  suppose  are  somehow  connected."  "  Ah, 
he's  a  great  friend  of  mine,"  said  the  man ;  "  I  was  dining 
with  him  only  the  other  night."  "  Hope  he  gave  you  a 
good  dinner,"  said  Byron.  "  Oh,  yes,  he's  a  tip-topper  ; 
he  knows  a  good  brand  of  fizz."  At  this  juncture  a  lady 
came  up  who  knew  Byron  and  accosted  him  by  his  name. 
A  rabbit  could  not  have  scooted  more  abruptly  than  that 
man  did.  We  never  laid  eyes  on  him  again.  We  our- 
selves departed  next  day.  These  dramatic  revelations  of 
names  did  us  no  good  among  the  yokels,  and  we  always 
had  recollections  of  "  the  well-read  cousin." 

I  am  reminiscencing  at  some  length  about  my  friend, 
not  indeed  because  he  was  my  friend,  never  faltering  in 
affection  and  care  and  kindness  in  the  forty  years  in  which 
I  may  say  this  friendship  was  an  additional  gladness  to 
two  lives  ;  and  less  because  of  his  kinsmanship  with  a  man 
whom  I  consider  one  of  the  half  dozen  greatest  men  England 
has  produced  and  whose  name  had  always  an  attraction  for 
me  from  the  days  far  before  my  teens,  when  his  music  sang 
to  me  under  those  veritable  Alps,  but  because  I  recognize 
in  him  certain  qualities  and  characteristics  which  stand 

287 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

out  and  make  him  a  thing  apart  from  other  men.  There 
are  doubtless  dozens  of  creatures  I  have  met  who  knew  the 
man  of  whom  I  write,  and  they  in  their  egotism  and 
ignorance  will  doubtless  smile  at  this  assertion. 

There  are  three  men  in  England  who  for  all  time  will  be 
the  targets  of  curiosity.  The  existing  Lords  Nelson  and 
Byron,  and  the  Wellington  of  the  day.  We  hardly  turn 
our  heads  to  note  what  manner  of  man  is  the  representative 
of  St.  Vincent,  of  Howe,  of  Exmouth  or  of  Rodney ;  these 
indeed  were  men  who  each  and  all  did  something  for  us  and 
held  their  lives  of  no  account  compared  with  the  glory  and 
advance  of  our  Empire.  But  the  memory  of  man  is  pro- 
verbially short.  It  is  unbelievable  that  a  man  may  loom 
in  the  limelight  of  life  and  yet  his  remembrance  be  as 
small  as  his  coffin.  But  genius  is  another  matter  !  There 
are  those  who  will  contradict  me  when  I  say  that  every 
additional  year  is  an  added  laurel  to  Shakespeare,  Keats, 
Shelley,  Swinburne,  Byron,  Tennyson.  They  are  of  those 
who  have  no  coffins  and  no  dust.  Our  souls  are  filled  with 
their  spirit,  and  we  dream  of  them  not  as  dead.  They 
are  as  birds  that  sing  to  us  from  beyond  the  night,  and 
although  we  see  them  not,  we  are  possessors  of  their  song. 

Nelson's  simplicity,  genius  and  character  have  endeared 
him  more  to  posterity  than  has  even  the  triumph  of 
Trafalgar.  His  name  has  fired  the  popular  imagination,  and 
there  will  always  be  interest  in  its  holder.  Wellington 
of  a  truth  was  no  genius,  but  he  was  the  saviour  of  Europe, 
a  man  of  conspicuous  force  and  integrity  of  character,  and 
emphatic  in  the  council-chambers  of  his  country.  The 
dignity  of  his  mien,  his  lofty  and  incorruptible  spirit,  the 
integrity  of  his  public  and  private  life,  his  determination 
no  less  than  his  masterful  presence,  mark  him  out  as  an 
abiding  individuality.  His  life  did  as  much  for  his  name's 

288 


The  Late  Lord  Byron 

durability  as  did  his  deeds  for  his  country.  His  laurels 
are  as  distinct  as  they  are  distinguished.  The  representa- 
tives of  these  three  men  are  born  to  a  burden  which  it  needs 
intelligence  to  sustain,  and  indeed  it  needs  a  stout  soul  to 
essay  the  task.  However  great  the  man  may  be,  he  goes 
through  life  contrasted  with  a  greater.  He  is  even  blamed, 
and  sometimes  ridiculed,  because  the  gods  have  withheld 
from  him  that  with  which  they  endowed  his  forbears. 

It  is  remarkable  that  the  intellectually  little  endeavour 
to  elevate  themselves  by  the  lowering  of  others.  If  I  am 
but  five  feet  high  and  I  represent  humanity  as  but  four,  I 
gain  for  myself  an  added  loftiness,  if  not  of  soul  at  least  of 
stature.  And  so  the  representatives  of  the  Great  are  made 
even  smaller  in  general  conception  than  in  truth  they  are  as 
created  by  their  Maker.  And  with  this  knowledge  they 
have  to  walk  through  life  the  target  of  curiosity  and  some- 
times of  contempt.  They  never  can  avoid  notice,  and 
they  have  not  that  sustaining  grandeur  of  character,  which 
is  mostly  the  appurtenance  of  the  great,  that  enables  them 
to  dignify  their  appearance  in  the  public  eye. 

As  an  instance  of  the  great  interest  created  by  one  of  the 
holders  of  these  three  names,  I  will  tell  you  a  story  as  told 
me  by  my  dear  friend,  Roland  le  Strange  of  Hunstanton 
(now,  alas,  with  the  majority).  On  one  occasion  he  had 
come  down  from  London  for  the  day  to  attend  a  large  garden 
party  given  by  his  father,  the  late  Squire,  at  the  old  historic 
hall.  He  watched  his  father  making  the  circuit  of  the  guests 
on  the  lawns  with  a  quaint,  eccentric-looking  person.  This 
quaintness  was  accentuated  by  a  Tennysonian  sort  of  hat 
and  cloak.  Everywhere  he  went  he  was  the  cynosure  of  all 
eyes.  Roland  wondered  who  the  devil  his  father  had  dug 
up.  He  watched  him  in  his  progress.  The  person  was 
everywhere  acclaimed  as  a  personage.  He  was  like  royalty. 

289  19 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

The  people  watched  him  and  sometimes  followed  him,  and 
there  did  not  seem  a  soul  who  had  the  honour  of  his  ac- 
quaintance who  was  not  desirous  of  his  remembrance  and 
recognition.  They  thrust  themselves  forward  so  as  not 
to  be  ignored.  And  this  is  exactly  how  and  where  the 
worst  manners  are  so  frequently  exemplified  in  the  Great, 
as  you  can  see  in  many  of  the  most  exclusive  houses  in 
London.  Continuing  his  circuit,  the  old  Squire  chanced 
upon  Roland,  and  turning  to  the  personage  he  said  :  "  May 
I  present  my  son  to  you  ?  "  Roland  then  learnt  that  it 
was  Lord  Nelson  whom  he  had  been  watching,  evidently 
the  only  man  there  unaware  of  the  distinction  of  enter- 
taining the  representative  of  the  hero  of  Trafalgar. 

I  have  frequently  seen  his  late  Grace  of  Wellington  the 
object  of  observation,  not  only  in  the  public  thoroughfares 
but  in  Apsley  House  itself.  The  Duchess  had  two  At 
Home  days  each  week,  Tuesdays  very  small  and  for  her 
friends,  and  Thursday,  I  think  it  was,  for  a  larger  circle. 
I  remember  how  awkward  it  was  for  me,  embarrassing  in 
fact  beyond  words,  the  first  time  I  entered  her  drawing- 
rooms.  I  was  and  always  had  been  terribly  nervous,  and 
in  response  to  a  letter  from  the  Duchess  asking  me  to  her 
Tuesdays  I  was  shown  upstairs.  On  the  door  being 
opened  my  eyes  encountered  about  fourteen  people  or  so  ; 
I  remember  Susan  Lady  Malmesbury  was  one  of  them,  her 
Grace  was  at  the  piano  and  the  scroll  of  music  intervened 
between  us.  I  thought  that  piece  would  never  end, 
for  everybody  was  looking  at  me  and  I  wished  I  had  not 
been  born.  Visiting  at  Apsley  House  was  a  formal  affair. 
Lady  Charles  Wellesley  insisted  on  her  son  keeping  up  all 
the  old  customs  and  traditions  of  the  house,  and  one  of 
these  distasteful  customs  was  the  writing  of  your  name 
in  a  book  every  time  you  entered.  To  friends  who  had 

290 


The  Late  Lord  Byron 

been  accustomed  to  run  in  and  out  of  the  house  in  Charles 
Street  this  necessity  was  very  distasteful.  That  Duke 
was  known  to  his  intimates  as  "  Spurgeon,"  from  a  fancied 
resemblance  to  the  great  preacher. 

The  Duke  told  me  that  he  had  a  great  dislike  to  giving 
his  name,  especially  in  shops.  I  told  him  some  stories  of 
Byron's  experiences  and  how  he  endeavoured  to  give  other 
names.  He  said  that  he  very  often  gave  simply  the  name 
"  Wellington,"  but  he  found  he  lost  his  parcels  as  they  went 
to  the  Barracks ! 

As  already  alluded  to,  Byron  had  the  greatest  horror  of 
mentioning  or  trading  on  his  name.  He  has  often  thanked 
me  where  an  introduction  was  almost  necessary,  for  simply 
saying  :  "  Let  me  introduce  my  friend."  Most  of  his 
articles,  as  I  have  said,  went  to  press  under  other  names, 
and  I  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  persuading  him  to  use 
his  own  over  a  series  on  the  Reform  of  the  House  of  Lords 
which  appeared  daily  in  a  well-known  London  paper  during 
the  passing  of  the  Veto  Bill.  He  was  then  staying  with  me 
in  my  house  in  London,  and  the  argument  by  which  I 
persuaded  him  to  break  his  rule  of  anonymity  was  that, 
presumably,  his  object  in  publishing  his  suggestions  for  the 
Reform  was  to  render  those  suggestions  operative  and 
effective.  "  You  have  had  a  seat  in  the  House,"  I  added, 
"  since  your  majority,  that  is  to  say  for  many  years  more 
than  have  had  the  average  members.  Moreover,  you  have 
attended  its  sittings  considerably  more  often  than  has  the 
average  member,  excepting  of  course  the  Government 
officials.  You  have  made  a  life-long  study  of  its  traditions 
and  modes  of  procedure  ;  now  do  you  think  that  such 
suggestions  as  you  make  could  by  any  possibility  carry  the 
same  weight  if  made  by  an  outsider  as  they  possibly  may 
bear  coming  from  a  member  and  a  man  who  knows  ?  " 

291  19* 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

So  long  as  I  live  I  shall  never  forget  the  passing  of  that 
Veto  Bill.  He  was  with  me  the  whole  time.  Poor  Byron 
was  a  man  who  may  safely  be  said  to  have  never  had  a  home. 
For  years  after  we  first  met  he  lived,  when  in  London, 
in  that  fine  old  family  mansion  in  Grafton  Street  which 
was  the  property  of  his  mother.  It  was  a  house  that 
sacrificed  much  to  its  State  apartments ;  these  indeed  were 
very  fine,  but  some  of  the  other  rooms  left  much  to  be 
desired — Byron's  bedroom  was  a  terror.  At  the  time  of 
which  I  speak,  his  residence  was  adjoining  Hampstead 
Heath.  Byron  Cottage  was  no  more  a  cottage  than  I 
am,  and  not  much  more  of  a  home.  He  was  there  very  little, 
making  frequent  flights  into  his  beloved  Essex,  or,  during 
later  years,  to  Folkestone.  His  great  wish  and  desire  was  for 
solitude,  where  he  could  think  and  write  and  live  his  own 
life  ;  but  all  this  never  prevented  his  coming  to  me,  and  he 
often  came  for  weeks  at  a  time  and  sometimes  for  months, 
my  marriage  making  no  difference,  as  at  first  I  feared  it 
might.  As  an  instance  of  the  rapidity  with  which  these 
flights  were  arranged,  I  remember  that  on  one  occasion  he 
telephoned  from  Byron  Cottage  asking  whether  we  both 
(Lady  Denham  and  I)  could  call  for  him  in  our  motor  at 
about  three  o'clock,  so  that  we  could  all  go  down  to  Essex. 
We  did  so,  and  were  actually  away  for  two  months  on  that 
impromptu  starting.  We  spent  a  good  deal  of  the  time 
at  Southminster  and  several  times  came  up  to  town  just 
for  the  night.  I  recall  the  difficulty  of  motoring  through 
a  Saturday  night  crowd  and  all  the  booths  and  buyers  for 
miles  and  miles  before  we  got  to  the  metropolis.  It  took 
one  all  one  knew  to  steer  without  casualties,  and  one  had 
a  wearied  brain  by  the  end  of  it.  We  dined  every  night 
at  the  House,  and  invariably  walked  home  together  dis- 
cussing the  modes  and  methods  of  the  speakers,  and  the 

292 


The  Late  Lord  Byron 

matter,  mostly  nil,  which  unadorned  them.  Often  some 
other  peer  accompanied  us,  very  frequently  Lord  Zouche 
or  Lord  Gage. 

I  must  digress  to  tell  a  story  of  the  latter  peer,  a  man 
who  interested  me  chiefly  inasmuch  as  he  was  a  son-in-law 
of  Mr.  Frederick  Peel,  whose  affection  for  me  I  shall  never 
forget.     He  would  drop  in  to  tea  two  or  three  times  a  week, 
and  his  knowledge  of  people  and  pedigrees,  and  his  fund  of 
information  concerning  them,  was  a  remarkable  addition 
to  one's  hearsay.     Shortly  after  I  came  down  from  Oxford, 
I  met  Gage  at  a  party,  and  he  asked  me  whether,  being 
at  Christ  Church,  I  knew  a  man  named  Andrew  Lawrie. 
I  said  :    "  Thank  God,  I  don't,  and  I  don't  want  to." 
"  Why  ?  "  asked  Gage.     "  Because  during  my  first  term 
at  the  House  I  inhabited,  for  all  my  sins,  that  part  known 
as    the    Cellars,    underground    sepulchres    in    Canterbury 
Quad,  and  overhead  in  the  rooms  lately  occupied  by  Brooke 
(now  Lord  Warwick)  there  was  a  man  with  the  devil  of  a 
piano,    and    periodically    through    those    dismal    days    he 
would  begin  to  play  three  or  four  bars  of  the  Dead  March 
in  Saul,  then  stop  and  begin  them  again.     He  never  went 
further.     The  owner  of  those  rooms  is  Andrew  Lawrie." 
"  Oh,"  said  Lord  Gage,  colouring  a  bit,  "  do  you  know 
I'm  afraid  that  I  was  the  culprit.     I  was  staying  with  Lawrie 
at  Christ  Church,  and  used  to  amuse  myself  playing  the 
Dead  March  while  he  was  at  lectures."     I  said  :    "  Don't 
do  it  again.     You  were  devilish  clever  to  find  amusement 
in  the  Dead  March.     You'll  find  yourself  in  the  British 
Museum  if  they  get  to  know  that  you  can  amuse  yourself 
in  that  way."     Another  peculiarity  attaching  to  Lord  Gage 
was  that  he  was  always  called  "  Jimmy  " — I  suppose  because 
his  name  happened  to  be  Henry  Charles.     Poor  Gage  did 
not  add  much  either  of  ornament  or  intellect  to  the  debates 

293 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

of  the  peers,  and  the  jerkiness  of  his  manner  stultified  any 
claim  to  stability.  His  wife  was  quite  charming  and  an 
excellent  hostess,  but  unfortunately  for  her  and  her  friends 
she  was  very  deaf.  At  a  dance  given  by  the  Gages  at  Firle, 
their  place  in  Sussex,  she  was  talking  to  a  man,  who  said 
to  her,  alluding  to  the  late  terrible  rains  :  "  We  have  had 
a  very  bad  summer."  He  could  not  understand  why 
Lady  Gage  dropped  him.  She,  poor  dear,  imagined  he  had 
said  :  "  We  have  had  a  very  bad  supper  !  " 

But  to  return  from  Sussex  to  Westminster.     When  we 
dined  at  the  Lords  there  were  longish  tables,  and  one  never 
knew  whom  one  would  have  as  neighbour.     Several  times 
I  sat  next  Sir  Samuel  Evans,  President  of  the  Divorce  Court. 
I  felt  glad  that  I  had  utilized  opportunities  and  made  a 
friend  of  him,  for  one  never  knows  when  a  friendship  may 
come  in  handy.     It  was  during  the  passing  of  the  Veto  Bill 
that,  for  the  third  time,  I  addressed  the  House  of  Lords. 
Up  to  this   present  year  of  grace,  I  had  supposed   that    I 
was  the  only  non-peer  person  who  had  ever  dared  such  a 
proceeding,  but   this   season   I   was   retailing  the  episode 
to  some  friends  at  an  afternoon  party,  and  ended  by  saying  : 
"  I  believe  I  am  the  only  person  who  has  done  such  a  thing." 
"  Oh  no,  you're  not,"  said  a  quiet-looking  man  who  had 
been  listening,  "  I  spoke  once  from  the  steps  of  the  Throne 
and  got  turned  out."     "  Anyway  I  beat  you,"  I  replied, 
"  for  /  spoke  and  was  not  turned  out."     The  quiet  gentle- 
man was  a  Right  Honourable  and  as  a  Privy  Councillor  had 
the  right  to  stand  on  the  steps  of  the  Throne  within  the 
precincts  of  the  House,  but  naturally  had  no  right  to  seat 
himself  on  the  benches  or  to  utter  a  syllable.     The  Privy 
Councillor  in  question,  not  agreeing  with  a    speech    de- 
livered by  a  peer  on  the  Irish  question,  made  a  remark  in 
thirteen  words,  but  that  baker's  dozen  caused  his  ejection. 

294 


The  Late  Lord  Byron 

My  speech  happened  in  this  wise.  I  always  occupied 
(save  the  mark !)  the  distinguished  strangers'  box  which 
is  level  with  the  House,  and  so  one  can  be  in  touch  with  near- 
sitting  peers.  Byron  was  going  to  speak,  and  in  my  smoking- 
den  previously  we  had  gone  over  his  speech,  and  I  was 
familiar  with  its  points  and  various  paragraphs.  Byron 
was  getting  along  excellently.  He  had  a  great  voice  which 
all  could  hear,  never  over-strained  and  always  forcible, 
and  he  spoke  with  quiet  and  deliberation.  Towards  the 
close  he  was  skipping  a  most  important  point,  so  putting 
my  hand  up  so  that  none  could  see  the  movement  of  my 
lips  but  leaving  a  slit  between  my  fingers  for  audibility, 
I  said  :  "  Stop  !  "  Byron,  who  was  speaking  quite  close 
to  me,  began  to  fumble  with  his  papers.  I  had  always 
told  him  that,  although  neither  he  nor  I  ever  used  notes, 
it  is  always  useful  to  have  them  handy  in  case  one  wants 
to  think  without  the  awkwardness  of  appearing  to  do  so. 
In  the  pause  (which  in  reality  was  only  one  of  seconds) 
I  gave  the  first  three  or  four  lines  of  the  forgotten  point, 
and  he  calmly  proceeded  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  The 
peers  on  either  side  of  him  also  heard,  but  they  were  quite 
inferior  people,  and  it  did  not  in  the  least  matter.  It 
was  amusing  to  see  them  looking  about  to  discover  where 
the  voice  came  from.  Perhaps  they  concluded  it  came  from 
Heaven.  That  also  does  not  matter,  unless  indeed  the 
apparently  celestial  utterance  influenced  their  vote. 

The  late  Lord  Zouche,  who  often  accompanied  us  from 
these  debates,  I  have  met  in  country  houses,  and  he  was 
for  years  a  member  of  White's.  I  don't  think  there  are 
ten  men  who  have  seen  him  smile  ;  I  should  say  he  had 
never  done  so  since  his  wife  left  him.  What  a  factor  woman 
is  in  the  lives  of  men  !  for  pleasure  or  pain  !  for  salvation 
or  ...  a  word  that  rhymes  ! 

295 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

Byron  was  a  man  of  readier  wit,  I  think,  than  anyone 
else  I  have  ever  known.  I  have  never  seen  him  at  a  loss 
for  a  rejoinder,  and  that  is  the  more  wonderful  inasmuch 
as  his  repartees  were  so  excellent.  One  day  we  found 
ourselves  at  a  little  hotel  in  Essex,  some  distance  from  his 
own  place,  where  we  had  dropped  in  for  luncheon.  For 
once  in  a  way  Byron  was  going  about  in  his  own  name. 
An  outsider,  who  had  ostentatiously  been  making  every 
effort  to  know  him,  found  his  opportunity  to  do  so  by 
offering  a  match  when  his  lordship  was  struggling  to  ignite 
a  cigarette.  Byron  most  politely  snubbed  the  man  as  he 
lingered  on  asking  question  after  question.  At  last,  in 
the  worst  possible  taste,  he  asked  why  Byron  did  not  follow 
in  the  steps  of  his  celebrated  ancestor  ?  Byron  looked 
calmly  at  him  for  a  second,  and  then  quite  courteously 
said  :  "  Well,  you  know,  I  think  the  Byron  family  has 
done  its  bit :  don't  you  think  it's  your  turn  now  ?  " 
Whereupon  the  man  coloured  and  withdrew. 

Byron  and  I  were  always  scoring  against  each  other, 
and  although  the  sparring  was  sometimes  robust,  I  can 
recall  no  single  instance  in  this  friendship  of  forty  years 
of  real  rufflement  on  either  side.  Once  we  were  cycling 
down  a  hill,  my  friend  leading.  Rounding  a  corner,  I 
heard  Byron  yell :  "  Brake !  "  I  applied  mine  for  all  I 
knew.  On  negotiating  the  corner,  what  was  my  horror 
to  see  a  donkey  all  but  right  across  the  narrow  lane,  his 
head  up  among  the  low  branches  where  he  was  annexing 
a  feed.  With  good  steering  and  keeping  your  head  it  was 
quite  possible  to  get  between  the  beast's  back  heels  and 
the  far  bank,  but  to  my  consternation  I  saw  Byron  steer 
straight  for  the  animal's  tummy.  He  struck  the  mark. 
Byron  went  off  :  so  did  the  donkey.  When  I  rejoined 
him  (Byron,  not  the  donkey),  I  said  :  "  Why  on  earth 

296 


The  Late  Lord  Byron 

did  you  go  for  the  donkey  ?  There  was  plenty  of  room  on 
the  other  side."  "  I  know  better,"  said  he.  "  The  last 
donkey  I  met  across  a  lane  took  five  spokes  out  of  my  back 
wheel  with  his  back  heels  as  I  passed,  and  I  had  to  carry 
my  bike  two  miles.  I  had  a  much  easier  fall  this  time 
against  the  donkey,  and  I  have  preserved  my  bike."  "  You 
seem  to  have  a  wonderful  knowledge  of  asses  and  their 
habits,"  I  rashly  ventured.  Whereupon  he  said  :  "  Well, 
dear  Gilly,  you've  given  me  every  opportunity,  and  I  should 
be  an  ass  myself  if  a  friendship  of  years  had  not  taught 
me  much  !  "  I  rode  some  miles  conjecturing  what  was  the 
retort  proper.  I  have  not  yet  found  it. 

I  used  often  to  dine  with  my  friend's  uncle,  the 
Honourable  and  Rev.  William  Byron,  a  man  whom  you 
could  not  help  liking  and  for  whose  memory  I  have  the 
greatest  respect.  He  was  the  father  of  an  even  older 
friend  of  my  Oxford  days,  George  Anson  Byron,  who, 
if  he  lives  long  enough  and  the  present  peer  has  no  son, 
is  in  the  direct  line  of  succession,  the  intervening  heir- 
presumptive,  familiarly  known  as  "  Paddles  "  Byron,  also 
having  no  son.  It  so  happened  that  William  Byron  married 
en  seconde  noce  the  wealthy  Miss  Burnside,  who  was  addition- 
ally well-dowered,  as  her  spinster  sister,  equally  well  off, 
continued  to  live  with  her  after  her  marriage.  Byron 
told  me  this  story  of  his  uncle.  The  latter's  brother 
Augustus,  also  a  parson,  but  who  had  not  had  the  oppor- 
tunity of  making  a  second  moneyed  matrimonial  venture, 
was  dining  with  his  brother  William  in  that  beautiful 
house  in  Portman  Square  where  I  have  spent  so  many  happy 
hours.  After  dinner  in  the  smoking-room  Augustus,  look- 
ing meditatively  into  the  fire,  said  :  "  William,  have  you 
ever  thought  how  remarkably  true  Scripture  is  ?  "  William, 
taken  aback,  ejaculated  :  "  Yes,  I  suppose  I  have." 

297 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

Augustus,  continuing  to  gaze  at  the  fire,  said  slowly,  as  if 
speaking  to  himself  :  "  I'm  thinking  of  that  text :  *  It 
is  easier  for  a  camel  to  go  through  the  eye  of  a  needle,  than 
for  a  rich  man  to  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  God.' '  When 
the  nephew  told  me  this  story  I  said  :  "  The  rich  have 
not  such  an  impossible  job  as  is  supposed ;  for  the  needle 
in  the  East  is  less  a  sempstress's  implement  than  the  small 
side  gate  into  the  city,  and  if  the  camel  knelt  down  he  might 
possibly  wriggle  through ;  and  so  possibly  might  the  rich 
man  also  if,  like  the  camel,  he  were  more  addicted  to  going 
on  his  knees."  On  which  Byron  rejoined  :  "I  should 
not  like  to  scrape  through,  no,  not  even  to  Buckingham 
Palace  ;  there's  no  pleasure  in  being  anywhere  where  you're 
not  up  to  your  company,  and  I've  always  been  led  to 
believe  that  one  needs  to  be  upright  in  order  to  enter 
Heaven." 

This  is  but  one  of  countless  instances  I  might  give  of 
Byron's  remarkable  readiness  in  retort,  a  quiet  certainty  of 
what  to  say,  and  the  instantaneous  humour  which  seasons 
it,  and  of  which  I  have  met  but  few  instances  in  my  life. 
Among  the  upper  classes  one  might  almost  say  that  dullness 
is  hereditary.  Smart  dinners  are  sufficient  evidence  of 
this ;  and  in  many  houses,  especially  those  which  in  the 
last  two  reigns  were  considered  exceptionally  exclusive, 
it  often  appeared  to  me  that  certain  people  could  not 
possibly  be  interesting  unless  they  indulged  in  anecdotal 
impropriety.  In  one  very  smart  country  house,  I  re- 
member, where  one  night  at  dinner  this  writer  was  rather 
silent,  on  being  asked  the  reason  he  replied  :  "  Oh,  I've 
mislaid  my  dictionary  and  cannot  find  it."  Naturally 
he  was  asked  what  the  dictionary  had  to  do  with  it ;  where- 
upon he  explained  :  "  Nowadays,  the  readiest  way  to  be 
reputed  a  wit  is  to  take  your  dictionary  to  bed  with  you 

298 


The  Late  Lord  Byron 

and  make  a  note  of  all  the  words  not  generally  used  in  polite 
society.  These  you  nonchalantly  bring  in  at  to-morrow's 
dinner.  This,  if  done  adroitly  and  with  the  features  of 
innocence,  will  socially  establish  you  as  a  humorist." 

Byron,  though  no  humorist  himself  and  having  a 
readiness  absolutely  independent  of  the  dictionary  or 
any  such  aids,  was  a  great  enemy  to  making  use  of  this  gift 
when  he  was  a  diner-out.  As  long  as  I  live  I  shall  never 
forget  the  lecture  he  gave  me  just  after  we  came  down 
from  Oxford.  We  had  met  at  a  dinner-party  given  in 
London  by  a  well-known  hostess,  and  for  some  reason  or 
other — perhaps  because  there  were  exceptionally  bright 
Americans  present — I  was  somewhat  in  the  core  of  the 
hilarity.  Walking  on  afterwards  to  a  dance,  Byron  gave 
it  to  me  hot.  "  I  think  it  a  great  mistake  for  you  to  amuse 
these  people.  They  do  not  and  never  will  understand 
or  admit  the  plurality  of  gifts.  If  you  are  labelled  as  wit, 
you  will  never  be  accredited  as  poet."  We  walked  on  in 
silence  as  I  considered  the  truth  or  otherwise  of  this  state- 
ment ;  and  it  is  extraordinary  how,  though  years  have 
intervened,  I  can  never  pass  that  particular  portion  of  the 
Park  where  this  was  said  without  it  all  coming  back  to  mind 
as  if  it  were  but  yesterday.  This  sage  of  three  and  twenty 
then  added  :  "  You  must  remember  this  strong  point : 
When  a  man  is  dull  he  is  ostensibly  a  Somebody,  otherwise 
he  would  not  be  there.  People  don't  ask  mediocrities 
unless  they  are  gilt-edged ;  but  if  they  happen  to  be 
amusing  they  come  in  with  the  clowns  and  the  jesters, 
as  Shakespeare  allowed  Falstaff  and  other  outsiders  to 
mix  with  Kings  on  account  of  their  wit.  Now,  I  take  it, 
you  ought  to  be  asked  out  for  yourself,  which  is  the  best 
part  of  you."  The  last  time  I  ever  saw  Byron  I  re- 
minded him  of  this  conversation,  for  he  had  been  kind  and 

299 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

generous  enough  to  say  how  much  our  friendship  of  years 
had  been  to  him.  "  Now,"  I  said,  "  how  would  you  have 
liked  it  all  these  years  if,  in  my  personal  talks  to  you,  I 
had  followed  this  advice  ?  "  "  Ah,"  he  replied,  "  that's 
another  matter  ;  we  two  can  afford  to  be  natural.  Be- 
sides which,  I  did  not  know  you  then  as  I  do  now,  or  perhaps 
that  dictum  of  mine  might  have  been  different ;  but  I 
still  declare  that  it's  a  good  dictum  for  general  use." 

Looking  back  on  life,  its  Oxford  days  and  all  the  inter- 
vening years,  I  cannot  but  think  how  rich  that  life  has 
been  in  friendships.  If  love  be  the  lustre  of  life,  friendship 
assuredly  is  its  sheen.  I  have  always  loathed  acquaintances. 
If  you  cannot  make  a  friend  of  such,  they  are  useless  and 
only  cumber  the  ground.  But  those  to  whom  you  can 
speak  without  fear  of  misconstruction  ;  those  upon  whom 
you  can  lean  in  days  of  difficulty,  and  who  have  within 
them  that  of  which  you  can  learn,  are  indeed  treasures 
for  which  to  thank  the  gods.  Now  of  all  the  men,  many 
of  them  of  such  widely  different  tastes,  whom  I  have 
known  and  known  well,  I  may  safely  say  that  none  of  them 
had  that  width  and  depth  of  cultured  judgment  and  the 
critical  faculty  so  strong  as  had  Byron.  In  all  the  days  that 
we  passed  together  in  Essex  and  elsewhere,  it  was  very  rare 
that  after  dinner  we  did  not  discuss  some  problem  of 
politics  or  ethics  of  literature,  or  the  correct  place  which 
some  man  of  note  should  rightly  occupy  either  contem- 
poraneously or  with  posterity.  We  never  argued  for 
argument's  sake  ;  the  inquiry  was  solely  a  search  for  truth, 
and  the  whole  matter  would  end  when  some  reason  was 
suddenly  projected  which  brought  us  nearer  the  truth 
for  which  we  strove.  The  following,  for  instance,  will  be 
interesting  as  containing  some  criticisms  of  my  friend  on 
the  writings  and  career  of  his  ancestor  the  poet.  (In 

300 


The  Late  Lord  Byron 

parenthesis  I  may  mention  that  of  all  God-forsaken  places 
this  conversation  took  place  at  Tilbury,  where  I  was  his 
guest  for  three  days,  showing  to  what  regions  my  friend 
would  rush  in  his  desire  for  seclusion.)  He  had  just  said  : 
"  A  poet  should  speak  from  the  dead  ;  till  then,  though 
men  may  listen  they  will  not  love."  I  said :  "  That's 
sad  for  the  poets."  "  And  is  not  that  what  they  are  ?  " 
he  rejoined,  "  have  you  ever  known  of  any  who  were 
joyous  ?  The  poet  Byron  was  a  sad  man.  Not  any  of  his 
women  seemed  to  give  him  joy,  and  how  short  a  time  they 
lasted.  Look  at  his  life  from  first  to  last ;  was  there  any- 
where anything  of  gladness  in  it  ?  "  "  Stop,"  said  I, 
"  what  about  the  glory  of  inspiration  ?  "  "I  do  not 
suppose  that  any  great  poet  has  left  less  evidence  or  trace 
of  that  joy  than  Byron ;  and  if  you  criticize  his  own 
manuscripts  of  passages  which  are  now  immortal,  you  will 
find  such  corrections  and  such  counter-corrections  that, 
if  there  be  any  gladness  in  the  matter,  it  must  have  been 
suggested  rather  by  the  success  of  his  after-annotations 
than  by  the  original,  which  was  so  widely  different." 

I  thought  a  moment  or  two  on  this :  it  seemed  just 
and  fair  ;  for  no  great  inspiration  would  seem  on  the  face 
of  it  to  need  that  after-thought  and  manipulation  which 
is  in  truth  but  intellectual  mechanism.  Then  suddenly 
I  said  :  "  Well,  granted  the  sorrow  of  his  life,  soldiers 
die  or  are  wounded  or  permanently  crippled  for  their 
country  ;  is  it  not  the  same  principle  that  a  poet  should 
lose  something  of  life's  joy  for  the  after-gladness  of  man- 
kind ?  "  "  That  is  so,"  said  Byron,  "  and  you  honour 
what  a  man  leaves,  and  in  its  greatness  the  world  is  en- 
riched. But  in  the  giving  of  himself  the  poet  is  not 
praiseworthy  in  the  sense  as  is  the  soldier.  One  gives 
at  the  dictates  of  discipline,  the  other  by  necessities  of 

301 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

nature  :  the  one  may  be  called  upon  to  give  or  may  not : 
for  him  there  may  be  no  call  or  need  for  sacrifice  :  the  other's 
life  is  one  long  sacrifice  :  for  this  end  he  was  born,  and  from 
it  there  is  no  escape  :  that  is  his  predestination  and  his 
pain,  and  when  the  laurels  come  he  will  not  be  there." 

In  that  opening  sentence  of  his,  which  indeed  I  think 
a  fine  utterance,  he  has  alluded  to  the  listening  without 
love.  I  am  very  humbled  when  I  think  of  the  affection  he 
spent  on  me.  His  was  essentially  a  selfish  nature,  partly 
the  result  of  his  bringing  up,  and  partly  the  result  of  natural 
instinct ;  yet  I  have  experienced  care  and  forethought 
from  him  which  showed  unselfishness  to  a  degree.  I  will 
give  you  one  from  countless  instances.  One  night  I  was 
lying  ill  in  my  father's  house  in  London.  Nearing  mid- 
night Byron  walks  into  my  room.  I  was  naturally  as- 
tonished, for  I  knew  that  Dizzy  had  asked  him  to  a  small 
reception.  I  had  also  been  honoured  with  an  invitation, 
and  Byron,  feeling  that  I  ought  to  have  been  there,  was 
very  annoyed  at  the  illness  which  prevented  me.  Naturally 
I  said  :  "  Why  are  you  not  in  Park  Lane  ?  "  "  Oh," 
he  said,  "  I  should  have  been  Nobody  there  and  I'm 
Somebody  here  ;  now  I'm  going  to  smoke  one  of  your 
cigarettes  and  cheer  you  up."  Are  there  many  men 
who  would  do  a  thing  like  that  ?  I  thank  God  as  I  look 
back  that  I  also  sacrificed  much  for  him,  bore  with  his 
defects  and  that  obstinacy  which  was  always  a  trouble, 
and  the  peculiar  bent  of  his  mind  and  being  which  made 
him  so  utterly  unlike  so  many  of  his  fellows.  One  essen- 
tial characteristic  was  his  indifference  to  women.  No 
good  and  great  woman  ever  singled  him  out,  and  in  that 
lay  his  irreparable  loss.  There  can  exist  no  greatness 
whose  heart-garden  is  not  flowerful  with  the  sowings  of 
woman ;  flowers  of  all  kinds  and  colour  leaning  upward 

302 


The  Late  Lord  Byron 

towards  the  living  light,  life  brightened  by  their  beauty, 
glorified  in  their  gleam,  impassioned  in  their  perfume. 

Byron  loved  writing  and  practically  died  in  harness. 
He  was  seemingly  getting  over  influenza,  and  was  writing 
for  The  Times  when  suddenly  he  grew  worse,  and  a  few 
minutes  later  expired.  So  passed  one  of  the  kindest  and 
most  unassertive  of  souls,  and  one  life  at  least  is  the  poorer. 


303 


XXII 

AN    EASTER   AUDIENCE 

THE   FUTILE    PEACE 

The  Shadows  of  Soul-Solitude.  Alone  amid  Millions.  The  Desolated  Lands. 
The  Seeds  of  Anarchy  are  aready  for  the  Sowing.  Where  is  the  Promised 
Peace  ?  The  Somnambulance  of  Belief.  There  are  Men  who  prefer  their 
own  Crutches  to  the  Wings  of  the  Gods.  The  Mind's  ignoring  of  the  Spirit. 
Insincerity  of  Soul  is  the  Seed  of  Decadence.  The  Shibboleth  of  State  Recog- 
nition. We  decorate  our  Churches  whilst  the  Dust  lies  in  our  Souls  :  Better 
the  Floweret  of  our  Lives  than  the  Flamboyance  of  our  Altars.  "  How 
long  halt  ye  between  Two  Opinions  ?  If  the  Lord  be  God,  follow  Him  : 
but  if  Baal,  then  follow  him."  In  the  Name,  not  of  Religion,  but  of  Common 
Sense,  why  halt  ye  ?  The  Great  Thing  in  Life,  as  assuredly  it  is  in  Death, 
is  Truth.  The  Danger  which  confronts  the  England  of  To-Day.  Canon 
Burroughs  on  the  Situation.  Dean  Inge  puts  his  Finger  on  the  Spot.  West- 
minster Abbey — Alas !  there  lies  the  Dust  of  the  Immortals,  but  we  beseech 
the  Immortalities  of  the  Living.  Even  the  Soul  that  is  Dead  must  arise 
and  Live.  The  Cardinal  Archbishop  of  Westminster.  His  Easter  Sermon. 
An  Audience  with  His  Eminence.  He  bids  me  write  fearlessly  of  all  I  feel. 

IT  is  Easter  Sunday.  It  is  now  nineteen  hundred  and 
twenty-one  years  since  the  Birth  of  that  Christ  Who 
to-day  is  remembered  as  risen  from  the  dead.  I  am  in 
London,  and  the  soul  of  me  turns  southwards  to  that 
Rivierian  shore  where  thoughts  connected  with  the  Day 
would  so  much  more  exquisitely  mix  themselves  with  the 
aromas  of  the  rose  and  the  solacings  of  sea-winds  'midst 
the  palms.  Here  in  this  London  I  am  held  as  if  in  a  vice 
by  the  necessities  of  these  pages  which  now  you  read, 
whilst  all  the  time  the  heart  and  soul  of  me  would  be  away, 

304 


An  Easter  Audience 

where  the  beautiful  things  of  the  earth  would  have  voice 
and  message. 

It  is  the  Day  of  the  Risen  Christ,  but  to  me,  alas !  it 
brings  not  heart  of  happiness  nor  wings  of  hope.  The 
soul  of  me  seems  brooding  'neath  the  shadow  of  a  dreary- 
sky.  For  the  first  time  in  all  my  life  in  London  I  have 
turned  from  the  welcome  that  might  be  mine  at  many  a 
hospitable  tea-table  and  passed  my  Sunday  in  silence  and 
alone. 

Something  of  the  uselessness  of  sacrifice  obsesses  me  ; 
the  blood  of  Europe  has  been  poured  out,  drenching  the 
corn  lands  and  colouring  the  floods.  The  anguished 
soul  of  man  has  prayed  for  Peace  and  the  new  world  which 
Peace  would  bring.  Yet  everywhere  I  see  the  seeds  of 
anarchy  ready  for  the  sowing,  and  continents  wherein  is 
not  one  single  realm  restored  to  rest.  Apprehension  is 
in  the  brain  of  the  Thinker,  and  to-day  is  the  day  of  the 
Risen  Christ.  Was  ever  such  a  paradox  since  God  made 
the  world  and  called  His  making  good  ? 

There  appears  to  be  a  tendency  on  the  part  of  some 
who  have  been  log-rolled  into  notoriety  in  Literature  or 
Art  to  consider  Belief  a  bathos  and  Faith  a  futility.  There 
are  men  who  prefer  their  own  crutches  to  the  wings  of  the 
gods.  It  is  the  supercilious  superiority  of  spiritual  deca- 
dence, and  such  men  think  that  by  intellectual  force  they 
can  withstand  the  instincts  of  the  ages. 

Intellectual  force  is  a  thing  whereof  to  be  perpetually 
proud.  Without  it  the  world  would  be  at  a  standstill,  and 
progress  but  a  dream.  But  intellectual  force  must  have 
its  foundation,  as  any  other  edifice  that  endures.  And  I 
am  daily  more  persuaded  that  nothing  in  Art  or  Literature, 
Science  or  even  Inspiration  has  a  chance  of  permanency 
that  is  contrary  to  the  spiritual  need  of  a  nation. 

305  20 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

As  a  thinker  rather  than  as  a  religionist,  I  increasingly 
hold  that  it  is  because  of  her  insincerity  of  Faith  that 
England  has  so  nearly  encountered  disaster.  Insincerity  of 
soul  is  the  seed  of  decadence.  We  have  been  leading 
up  towards  it  for  years,  and  it  seems  as  likely  as  not  that 
we  are  continuing  upon  the  self-same  road. 

Will  you  consider  the  position  from  the  standpoint 
of  common  sense  rather  than  from  the  platform  of  bigotry 
or  the  rostrum  of  belief  ?  We  are  a  nation  recognizing 
God  as  the  essence  of  Law,  Order  and  Government.  We 
have  a  State  Church,  the  principal  Ministers  of  which  are 
accorded  seats  in  our  Parliament  and  whose  votes  are 
individually  equal  to  those  of  the  proudest  territorial 
magnates.  No  Sovereign  by  descent  is  considered  altogether 
a  King  until,  after  weeks  of  elaborate  preparation  and 
hours  of  ceremonial,  he  has  been  consecrated  by  the  sacred 
oil,  token  of  the  Almighty's  sanction.  Our  children  are 
baptized  and  confirmed  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  even  as 
to  God  we  confide  the  slumbers  of  our  cherished  dust. 

This  may  be  said  to  be  the  outward  and  official  face 
of  the  nation's  programme,  but  what  are  the  realities  ?  If 
you  want  to  hear  the  Name  of  God,  you  will  hear  it  only 
along  the  thoroughfares  in  an  oath,  or  in  the  Churches 
in  a  sermon.  The  Name  of  God  has  no  place  in  our  public 
life.  It  is  relegated  to  the  secrecies  of  the  soul,  where 
things  are  felt  rather  than  expressed.  We  will  decorate 
our  Churches  whilst  the  dust  lies  in  our  souls.  Better 
the  floweret  of  our  lives  than  the  flamboyance  of  our 
Altars. 

Now  if  God  be  true  and  a  reality,  how  can  a  nation 
expect  longevity  that  ignores  Him  ? 

These  thoughts  are  prominently  uppermost  in  my  mind, 
inasmuch  as  it  has  lately  been  borne  home  to  me  that  I 

306 


An  Easter  Audience 

may  send  any  sort  of  sonnet  to  the  Press  save  only  that 
which  deals  with  the  solemnities  which  in  truth  are  the 
only  things  that  matter.  The  other  day  the  Editor  of 
one  of  the  most  prominent  and  influential  of  our  Journals 
wrote  me  a  kindly  letter  in  which  he  said  that  a  certain 
sonnet  would  be  accepted,  but  he  suggested  that  the  fol- 
lowing lines  should  be  altered  as  inappropriate  for  the  pages 
of  a  newspaper.  The  lines  in  question  are  : 

"  Through  cleft  of  cloud  the  Light  of  God  is  seen, 
Our  eyes  shall  drink  it  as  on  Holy  ground." 

That  you  may  judge  for  yourselves,  the  complete  sonnet 
as  I  wrote  it  is  appended.  I  called  it 

THE  BURDEN  OF  YEARS. 
"  Heavy  the  weight  of  years  I  carry  hence  ; 
The  weightier  for  every  passing  year  : 
There's  little  strength  to  carry  them,  I  fear, 
Where  Time  leads  on  in  dread  omnipotence  : 
God  will  not  leave  the  weary  in  suspense  ; 
Some  day  a  glimmering  sentinel  will  appear  ; 
He  takes  the  burden  as  the  Dawn  draws  near : 
And  the  tide  ebbs  in  ringing  resonance  : 

"  Then  as  a  captive  ransomed  and  unbound, 
I  pass  the  portals  where  the  amethyst  sheen 

Of  many  a  dear  lost  Dream  of  Dawn  is  found  : 

The  stars  are  dying  without  sigh  or  sound  : 

Through  cleft  of  cloud  the  Light  of  God  is  teen — 

Our  eyes  shall  drink  it  as  on  Holy  ground." 

I  do  not  blame  the  editor  :  I  think  he  was  right ; 
but  I  do  blame  the  times  that  make  it  possible  that  the 
mention  of  the  Almighty's  name  is  considered  inappropriate 
for  general  reading.  I  certainly  did  not  alter  the  lines. 

For  years,  quite  apart  from  their  claims  to  be  an 
inspired  work  for  the  spiritual  needs  of  man,  I  have  regarded 
the  Scriptures  as  a  volume  of  superlative  beauty,  which 
not  only  have  held  their  place  throughout  the  centuries 

307  20* 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

in  the  affection  of  countless  generations,  but  have  been 
an  enduring  influence  in  simplifying  and  ennobling  our 
language  as  no  other  book  has  done.  Few  books  that 
live,  even  the  writings  of  Byron,  but  show  their  indebtedness 
to  those  great  immortal  masterpieces  of  Holy  Writ.  It 
is  indeed  a  paradox  that  Byron,  who  certainly  would 
not  be  numbered  among  spiritual  poets,  and  whose  work 
at  times  shows  more  of  the  libertine  than  of  the  religionist, 
should  so  strongly  exhibit  in  his  tendency  of  thought  and 
the  phrasing  of  his  words  so  convincing  an  indebtedness  to 
Holy  Writ. 

I  do  not  for  one  moment  suggest  that  except  in  a  few 
instances  you  can  find  passages  in  Scripture  of  the  same 
height  of  dramatic  art  or  depth  of  feeling  which  ennobles 
the  best  classical,  mediaeval,  or  modern  poetry  ;  but  I  do 
assert  that  no  classic,  ancient  or  modern,  contains  the 
same  purity  of  style  as  beautifies  the  text  of  the  Bible  ; 
and  of  course  it  is  a  truism  that,  apart  from  the  telling, 
the  story  of  the  Christ  is  one  of  the  most  tender  tragedies 
that  has  ever  been  told,  and  I  question,  as  far  as  drama 
goes,  whether  Shakespeare  himself  has  any  such  incident 
as  that  which  was  once  enacted  on  a  lonely  Hebrew  hill. 

We  parade  the  beauties  of  Macbeth  and  ponder  that 
scene  where  the  witches  surround  their  fire,  and  we  listen 
to  their  incantations ;  but  is  that  scene  anywhere  near  in 
dramatic  art  and  profundity  of  impression  to  that  wild 
hill-side  in  Palestine  where  the  altar  was  upraised  and 
the  offering  laid  thereon,  and  the  prophets  of  Baal  leaped 
around,  cutting  themselves  with  knives  for  their  god  to 
wake  and  light  the  flame  ? 

Mark  the  brevity  and  beauty  of  this  :  "  And  Elijah  came 
unto  all  the  people,  and  said,  How  long  halt  ye  between 
two  opinions  ?  if  the  Lord  be  God,  follow  Him  :  but  if 

308 


An  Easter  Audience 

Baal,  then  follow  him.  And  the  people  answered  hini 
not  a  word."  (I.  Kings  xviii.  21.) 

Now  in  the  name,  not  of  religion,  but  of  common  sense, 
why  halt  we  ?  If  we  are  not  satisfied  with  our  God,  by 
all  means  let  us  banish  Him  from  our  curriculum,  as  we 
have  already  ostracized  Him  from  our  councils.  If  He  be 
real  and  supreme  and  influential,  can  you  wonder  that  the 
Peace  planned  solely  by  man  has  been  a  peace  void  of 
permanency,  a  diplomatic  arrangement  which  brings  not 
confidence  or  solidity  to  any  land  ?  It  is  a  Peace  begotten 
of  human  Conference  that  recognizes  no  supremacy  but 
its  own.  How  then  can  it  be  that  this  God  of  ours  can 
sustain  what  He  Himself  has  never  established  ?  How 
long  halt  ye  ? 

In  the  name  of  all  common  sense,  as  Englishmen 
endeavour  to  be  trusty  in  their  business,  so  let  Britain  be 
true  to  her  belief.  If  that  belief  be  not  in  God,  why  not  be 
honest  and  supplant  Him  by  Baal  ?  Believe  me,  the 
great  thing  in  Life,  as  assuredly  it  is  in  Death,  is  Truth. 
No  nation  can  outlive  superficial  supremacy  that  is 
not  true  to  the  instincts  of  sincerity.  And  this  is  the 
danger  which  confronts  the  England  of  to-day.  How- 
ever insane  in  precept,  it  would  be  more  honourable  in 
principle,  if  nationally  we  fail  to  recognize  God,  that 
we  should  revert  to  the  reverencing  of  Baal.  Those  of 
you  who  are  logically  educated  will  recall  the  reductio  ad 
absurdum :  "  If  the  Lord  be  God,  follow  Him  :  and  if 
Baal,  then  follow  him." 

And  as  a  last  word,  be  it  said  that  belief  is  as  necessary 
to  the  soul  as  is  bread  to  the  body.  No  savage  is  without 
his  sculptured  stick  or  graven  stone.  These  are  to  him  the 
emblems  of  a  dominant  Power.  For  assuredly  there  is  one 
thing  of  truth  beyond  the  perversities  of  contradiction, 

309 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

which  is,  that  Man  of  himself  is  incapable  of  advance  in 
human  progress  without  a  leadership  which  is  beyond 
himself. 

Although  the  apathy  of  St.  Stephen's  may  possibly  be 
against  me,  as  equally  will  be  the  secularism  of  the  Press, 
this  writer  is  satisfied  that  the  sincerer  thinkers  of  the 
day  are  with  him.  There  is  seldom  wanting  profound 
consideration  in  anything  uttered  by  Dean  Inge  or  Canon 
Burroughs.  They  are  men  of  no  narrowed  instincts,  and 
recognize  not  only  the  perils  of  the  day  but  the  necessity 
of  new  methods  if  we  are  to  survive  them.  "  It  is  some- 
thing," says  Canon  Burroughs,  "  that  in  so  many  quarters, 
from  Downing  Street  downwards,  humanity  is  beginning 
to  acknowledge  the  failure  of  its  best-laid  plans  for  peace. 
It  would  be  still  more  to  the  point  if  the  world  would  see 
that  it  is  not  so  much  the  plans  that  are  at  fault  as  the 
false  philosophy  behind  them.  Dean  Inge  puts  his  finger 
on  the  spot  in  his  fine  analysis  of  the  situation.  Surrounded 
by  evidence  of  the  bankruptcy  of  secularism,  we  yet  go  on 
devising  new  plans  without  looking  first  for  a  new  faith 
to  shape  them.  And  hence  these  tears." 

Conviction  is  rapidly  gaining  ground  in  the  minds  of 
thinkers,  not  only  that  something  must  be  done,  but  that 
this  something  must  be  done  quickly.  Our  interests  as  an 
Empire  are  so  widespread  and  so  complex  that  nothing  less 
than  foresight  and  promptitude  are  of  much  avail.  Have 
our  statesmen  too  much  whereof  to  think  that  they  are 
oftentimes  so  tardy  to  act  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  even  as 
in  Churches  we  invoke  Divine  aid  for  the  sickly,  so  should 
our  prayers  be  asked  for  the  ailing  energies  of  our  leaders. 
Each  alike  is  on  the  shelf,  and  they  require  that  which 
will  raise  them  to  action. 

Well  may  Canon  Burroughs  ask :    "  Why,  after  living 

310 


An  Easter  Audience 

through  August  1914,  does  the  man  in  the  street  think 
such  a  *  new  mind '  impossible,  and  the  men  in  power  take 
no  serious  steps  to  bring  it  to  pass  ?  " 

These  are  strange  thoughts  of  an  Easter.  This  is 
the  day  that  traditionally  we  choose  for  the  wearing  of 
something  new.  "  Give  me,"  I  cried,  "  new  hope  built  on 
a  steadfast  ground,  a  new  light  adown  the  labyrinth  of 
years." 

Thus,  till  the  evening,  and  the  remembrance  came  to 
me  of  how  often  I  had  heard  how  great  a  place  is  London. 
There  is  nothing  you  can  ever  want  but  London  can  supply. 
Yet,  here  was  I,  with  this  dense  solitude  and  silence  of 
soul,  and  nothing  seemed  to  kindle  it  or  give  it  Light. 
"  Surely,"  I  said,  "  somewhere  there  is  for  me  a  Voice." 
Even  in  the  wilderness  of  old  there  was  an  Utterance  for 
those  whose  silence  of  soul  made  that  Utterance  audible. 

"  The  wilderness  and  the  solitary  place  shall  be  glad 
for  them  ;  and  the  desert  shall  rejoice,  and  blossom  as  the 
rose.  It  shall  blossom  abundantly,  and  rejoice  even  with 
joy  and  singing.  .  .  . 

"  Strengthen  ye  the  weak  hands,  and  confirm  the  feeble 
knees.  Say  to  them  that  are  of  a  fearful  heart,  Be  strong, 
fear  not :  behold,  your  God  will  come  with  vengeance, 
even  God  with  a  recompence  ;  He  will  come  and  save  you. 
Then  the  eyes  of  the  blind  shall  be  opened,  and  the 
ears  of  the  deaf  shall  be  unstopped.  Then  shall  the  lame 
man  leap  as  an  hart,  and  the  tongue  of  the  dumb  sing  :  for 
in  the  wilderness  shall  waters  break  out,  and  streams  in 
the  desert.  And  the  parched  ground  shall  become  a  pool, 
and  the  thirsty  land  springs  of  water  :  in  the  habitation 
of  dragons,  where  each  lay,  shall  be  grass  with  reeds  and 
rushes.  And  an  highway  shall  be  there,  and  a  way,  and  it 
shall  be  called  The  Way  of  Holiness ;  the  unclean  shall  not 

3" 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

pass  over  it ;  but  it  shall  be  for  those  :  the  wayfaring 
men,  though  fools,  shall  not  err  therein.'* 

"  Surely,"  I  repeated,  "  there  somewhere  is  a  Voice — 
where  shall  it  be  found  ?  "  I  thought  of  the  Abbey.  Alas, 
there  lies  the  dust  of  the  Immortals,  but  we  beseech  the 
Immortalities  of  the  living. 

So,  midway  to  Westminster  I  halted,  and  found  myself 
within  the  great  modern  Cathedral  in  Ashley  Gardens.  I 
saw  before  me  thousands  and  thousands  of  people,  and 
beautiful  music  swayed  their  souls.  There  must  have 
been  from  five  to  six  thousand  in  that  huge  edifice. 

By  a  less  crowded  side  aisle  I  made  my  way  westward 
of  the  pulpit.  Just  under  it  I  asked  :  "  Who  is  the  preacher 
to-night  ?  "  "  The  Cardinal,"  was  the  reply.  I  was 
indeed  glad  I  should  at  last  hear  Cardinal  Bourne.  A  vast 
curiosity  possessed  me.  What  would  this  far-seeing  man  say 
of  the  perilous  passage  of  Time,  and  the  purport  of  these 
hazardous  days  ?  How  would  he  utilize  this  opportunity, 
splendid  and  unique,  of  quickening  the  souls  entrusted  to 
his  keeping  ? 

Music  prepared  the  way  for  a  great  occasion.  Even 
the  soul  that  is  dead  must  arise  and  live.  With  candles 
borne  before  the  great  uplifted  Cross,  his  Eminence  passed 
down  between  the  crowds,  a  lonely,  dignified  figure,  em- 
phatic and  apart  in  his  robes  of  crimson  rose.  He  passed 
quite  near  me  and  ascended  the  pulpit.  There  was  not 
sound  nor  stir  in  that  huge  waiting  concourse. 

His  Eminence  is  a  quiet  man  of  dignified  mien.  A 
mind  of  masterful  self-restraint.  His  earnestness  rises 
superior  to  the  artificialities  of  eloquence.  His  position 
is  such  that  each  word  must  be  delicately  chosen.  A 
prince  of  the  Church  is  of  necessity  a  statesman,  and 
these  are  no  times  for  the  idle  tossings  of  words.  For 

312 


An  Easter  Audience 

forty  minutes  he  spoke.  There  was  no  striving  after  effect, 
the  man's  own  earnestness  was  his  own  unselfconscious 
key  which  opened  for  him  the  hearts  of  his  listeners.  It 
is,  in  truth,  a  remarkable  and  memorable  fact,  that,  such 
was  his  mastery  of  men  that  during  those  forty  minutes, 
no  single  word  of  his  Eminence  was  impeded  or  obliterated 
by  cough  or  sound  or  stir  from  that  immense  audience. 
To  those  of  you  who  are  cramped  in  sectarianism,  is  it  not 
good  to  remember  lines  which  are  immortal  to  all  seekers 
of  beauty,  "  books  in  the  running  brooks,  sermons  in 
stones,  good  in  everything."  The  power  of  the  Cardinal's 
sermon  was  that  it  was  absolutely  uncontroversial,  omitting 
perhaps  his  preface  and  the  gentle  allusion  to  the  patri- 
archal Cardinal  who  the  week  before  had  passed  away, 
there  was  nothing  in  it  to  which  the  strictest  Protestant 
in  England  could  possibly  take  exception.  As  I  left  the 
Cathedral  accompanied  by  a  courteous  ecclesiastic,  I  said 
to  him  :  "  I  am,  Monsignor,  what  you  perhaps  would  call 
a  heretic.  I  can  but  say  that  regarding  the  progress  of  my 
country,  I  would  that  half  England  had  been  within  these 
walls  this  evening.  There  was  a  message  here  which  no 
Englishman,  whatever  be  his  Creed,  could  afford  to  ignore, 
or  fail  to  follow." 

"  And  He  that  sat  upon  the  throne,  said,  Behold  I 
make  all  things  new."  (Rev.  xxi.  5.)  Kal  tlirtv  o  aaQji^vog 
£7Ti  T$  6p6vy  •  'iSov,  Kaiva  Travra  irotw.  He  gave  out  the  text 
in  quiet  tones  that  yet  reached  most  of  the  mass  beneath 
him.  He  used  no  note.  He  never  hesitated,  and  I,  who 
have  listened  to  most  of  the  big  speeches  and  sermons  of  my 
day,  would  find  it  difficult  to  recall  an  utterance  with  words 
more  carefully  chosen  or  more  forcibly  delivered. 

He  spoke  to  us  first  of  that  remarkable  man  Cardinal 
Gibbons,  whose  brilliant  career  had  closed  last  week,  and  of 

313 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

the  loss  that  life  is  to  Christianity  at  large.  The  times 
are  such  that  every  available  asset  of  belief  and  earnestness 
is  necessary.  Now,  I  thought,  he  is  coming  to  it,  these 
perilous  days  and  this  darkened  outlook.  "  Three  years 
ago,"  the  Cardinal  continued  (I  do  not  pretend  to  quote  ; 
I  am  no  reporter.  I  listened  with  my  heart  rather  than 
with  my  ears)  :  | 

"  Three  years  ago  we  were  still  in  the  woes  and  anguish 
of  war,  and  that  anguish  has  not  yet  disappeared  from  the 
face  of  the  earth.  Three  years  ago,  when  victory  came,  we 
were  being  told  that  there  would  be  a  new  world,  a  new 
earth.  But  there  is  not  a  single  nation  on  the  earth  which 
is  truly  at  peace. 

"  It  is  said  glibly  enough  in  our  public  Press,  and  even 
in  our  Sunday  papers,  that  the  Churches  have  failed.  If 
by  Churches  are  meant  those  human  agencies  and  organiza- 
tions which  have  been  set  up  to  lead  people  to  Almighty 
God,  we  may  admit  without  question  that  the  Churches 
have  failed.  But  the  Church  of  Christ  has  not  failed,  for 
Jesus  Christ  has  not  and  cannot  fail.  If  the  world  is  not  yet 
at  peace,  if  evil  abounds  as  much  as  before  the  war,  it  is 
because  the  healing  has  been  sought  outside  the  influence 
of  Jesus  Christ. 

"  Some  years  ago  I  spoke  on  this  subject  at  Easter, 
and  I  pointed  out  how  the  great  Conference  in  Paris  was 
working  without  any  reference  to  the  name  of  Almighty 
God.  .  .  .  From  Christ,  and  Him  alone,  can  peace  come 
to  this  earth.  .  .  .  Outside  this  influence  there  is  neither 
peace  nor  understanding,  nor  any  harmony  among  the 
nations  of  the  world." 

The  Cardinal's  sermon  made  such  an  impression  on  me 
that,  after  his  Eminence  had  descended  from  the  pulpit, 
I  waylaid  a  passing,  important-looking  ecclesiastic  and 


An  Easter  Audience 

asked  him  whether  it  was  possible  to  obtain  an  audience 
of  his  Eminence.  "  Hardly,"  the  kindly  dignitary  re- 
sponded. "  The  Cardinal's  time  is  fully  occupied  and 
to-morrow  I  think  he  leaves  London."  "  I  will  give  you  my 
card,"  I  answered,  "  and  if  ever  you  can  arrange  an  audience 
I  shall  be  very  grateful."  He  took  the  card  and  looking 
at  it,  quickly  said  :  "  Can  you  wait  here  a  few  minutes  ?  " 
Subsequently  he  returned  saying,  "  The  Cardinal  will  receive 
you  in  the  Sacristy  on  his  return  from  the  Cathedral.  Will 
you  come  with  me  ?  "  He  led  me  to  the  Sacristy,  where 
I  waited.  Presently  the  solemn,  gorgeous,  little  procession 
came  along,  the  lighted  tapers,  the  upraised  Cross,  the 
choristers,  the  acolytes,  the  Cardinal,  his  crimson  train 
upheld  by  the  attendant  Candatario,  and  in  a  few  moments 
an  ecclesiastic  came  and  ushered  me  into  the  audience  room. 
I  shall  never  forget  the  kindness  of  that  greeting,  the 
dignity  of  the  man  as  he  advanced  to  meet  me.  He  gave 
me  ten  minutes  of  his  valued  time.  We  spoke  of  these 
perilous  days  and  of  the  necessity  for  courage  and  plain 
speaking.  The  outlook  is  serious  everywhere,  and  it  is 
not  by  avoidance  that  difficulties  can  be  overcome.  He 
told  me  to  write  fearlessly  as  I  felt,  and  said  :  "  I  pray 
for  your  success  on  your  difficult  path."  I  am  the  richer 
for  his  sympathy  and  the  Godspeed  of  his  blessing. 

And  so  out  into  the  open,  and  under  the  starful  skies ! 
The  huge  edifice  soon  empties ;  the  thoroughfares  are 
thronged,  and  in  all  directions  the  people  pass  along.  Some 
with  anthems  ringing  in  their  ears,  the  lingering  chords 
that  will  not  die  ;  others,  but  just  returned  from  the 
countryside,  carry  with  them  the  remembrance  of  the 
soaring  lark  and  his  busy  day  of  song.  In  the  hands  of 
the  children  are  the  cowslips  and  violets  of  the  Spring  ; 
in  the  hearts  of  the  mothers  is  the  music  of  their  joy,  of  their 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

little  ones  that  rollicked  along  where  the  rills  make  rivers 
of  melody  and  the  trees  of  Winter  are  putting  forth  the 
leaves  that  shall  be  to  them  as  sweet  soul-whisperings.  And 
some  pass  on  who  have  been  in  no  way  wakened  by  anthem, 
whether  man's  or  nature's.  They  bear  within  them 
slumberous  souls.  We  all  are  passing  onwards — some  with 
the  singing  soul,  some  with  the  silences  of  death  that  live 
unawakened  throughout  life.  And  yet  it  needs,  oh  !  such  a 
tiny  thing,  to  waken  the  slumberous  heart  or  soul.  Look 
at  the  faint  breeze  on  the  motionless  sea — one  moment, 
and  its  life  is  changed,  and  every  rill  that  rises  finds  the 
light,  as  we  in  looking  back  find  oftentimes  a  memory  dear 
that  lends  its  radiance  to  our  eyes  ;  or,  looking  forward, 
find  in  some  fair  dream  a  beacon  that  shall  solace  us  as  on 
we  pass. 


XXIII 

MEMORABLE   SAYINGS 

The  Rarity  of  a  Great  Saying.  "  In  the  World,  Not  of  It."  Lord  Beaconsfield's 
Conclusion — "  The  Moment  is  Nothing  :  'tis  the  Morrow  that  Matters." 
Browning's  Utterance — "  The  Gods  take  no  Heed  of  the  Body."  "  God 
allows  No  Waste  :  All  of  Beauty  Will  Live."  The  Great  Professor  Owen 
— "  The  Loftiest  Truths  are  Those  that  lie  Unseen."  Harry  Vane  Milbank — 
"  We  don't  live  enough  under  the  Skies."  The  Duchess  of  Somerset — 
"  It  is  the  Beginning  that  Counts  :  those  who  make  the  Move  are  the  Real 
Workers."  Lord  Waleran,  Sir  A.  Acland-Hood  (Lord  St.  Audries).  Great 
Lives  are  interwoven  with  their  Aim.  The  Coronet  as  a  Stepping-Stone. 
Lord  Atkinson's  Dictum  on  Fair  Play.  Old  Things  have  passed  and  that 
which  is  New  shall  likewise  Perish.  Gladstone  on  the  Burden  of  Memory. 
The  Filling  of  the  Heart  with  Summer. 

SURELY  it  is  only  the  crassly  imbecile  who  imagine  that 
once  they  have  left  Eton  and  Oxford,  Aldershot  or 
Sandhurst,  education  is  ended.  The  strong  soul  is  ever 
learning,  and  to  the  strong  souls  we  look  for  the  maturity 
of  progress.  Upon  these  depends  our  Empire,  its  sus- 
tentation  and  its  saving. 

There  are  two  things  which  increasingly  amaze  me.  One 
is,  how  few  helpful  things  are  said  ;  the  other  that,  when 
said,  how  infrequently  they  are  remembered.  One  cannot 
but  acknowledge  and  glory  in  the  possession  of  this  great 
Empire's  brain-power,  and  the  progress  effected  by  its 
pioneerage.  But  when  all  this  is  admitted  and  admired, 
there  remains  the  lamentable  fact  that  there  exists  an 
unbelievable  shortage  of  great  things  said  in  brief.  Non- 
writers  scarcely  realize  the  inspiration  which  sires  a  sentence 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

crisp  in  style  embodying  undying  truth.  A  sentence  which 
takes  hold  and  grips  you,  and  is  unutterably  helpful  to  the 
thoughtful  soul  on  its  onward  way. 

The  writer  of  these  pages  has  unhappily  kept  no  note- 
book. Had  he  done  so,  a  very  small  volume  would  have 
sufficed  for  the  enrolment  of  such  riches.  These  good 
and  great  and  helpful  thoughts,  even  when  uttered  or 
foreshadowed  by  the  minds  of  thinkers,  are  rarely  uttered 
in  such  literary  style  as  to  enforce  remembrance.  I  am 
endeavouring  to  reproduce  for  you  some  sayings  which 
have  riveted  themselves  on  my  memory,  and  have  largely 
influenced  my  life.  They  were  all  spoken  to  me  and  mostly 
by  noteworthy  men. 

My  dear  father  has  influenced  my  life  more  than  words 
can  express  by  two  unforgettable  things.  One  day,  about 
a  year  after  I  had  left  Oxford,  he  came  into  my  den  and 
said  :  "  What's  the  trouble  with  you  ?  "  for  he  saw  fronting 
me  a  sheet  of  notepaper  on  which  was  written :  "  Dear 
Mrs.  Dash,  Thank  you  so  much  for  your  kind  invitation 

which "  and  that  was  as  far  as  I  could  get.  "  The 

matter  is,"  I  said,  "  that  people  have  very  kindly  asked 
me  to  join  a  party  they  have  suddenly  got  up  for  to-morrow, 
and  I  can't  make  up  my  mind  whether  I  want  to  go  or  no." 
"  And  why  shouldn't  you  want  to  go  ?  "  was  the  natural 
query.  "  Because  I  feel  like  a  bear  and  am  likely  to  growl." 
"  Refuse  it,"  was  the  reply ;  "  the  acceptance  of  an 
invitation  carries  with  it  the  obligation  to  give  of  one's  best." 

I  have  never  forgotten  this,  and  have  humbly  en- 
deavoured to  live  up  to  it.  Do  you  know,  I  have  seen 
dozens  and  dozens  of  people  who  by  their  manner  at  a 
function  seem  to  think  that  their  very  presence  was  sufficient 
return.  Do  you  know  that  I  have  seen  dozens  and  dozens 
of  men  and  women,  as  I  have  gone  in  and  out  from  one 


Memorable  Sayings 

house  to  another  in  London,  who,  although  many  of  them 
were  charged  with  interesting  or  entertaining  things,  have 
appeared  merely  as  pegs  whereon  to  hang  good  clothes. 
Do  you  know  that  there  actually  exist  masher  men  and  other 
immaturities  who  consider  that  imbecility  is  the  sign-manual 
of  birth  and  mental  immobility  the  acme  of  manners  ? 
It  may  be  that,  were  there  more  brains  in  the  hostess,  there 
would  be  less  of  bathos  in  the  hospitality. 

The  other  saying,  so  frequently  on  my  father's  lips, 
the  memory  of  which  has  never  left  me,  was  : 
"  In  the  world,  not  of  it." 

All  society  in  cities  is  alike  in  its  trivial  tendency,  and  I 
question  whether  thought  or  reality  or  progress  could 
exist  in  the  mind  of  any  man  who  gave  himself  up  wholly 
to  its  influence.  It  is  with  this  conviction  in  mind  that 
one  realizes  the  value  of  remembering  and  living  up  to  this 
great  saying.  One  is  not  a  puritan  for  so  doing  ;  one  is 
simply  endowed  with  common  sense. 

Try  and  realize  for  yourselves  that  at  start  the  human 
soul  and  heart  speak  true  to  the  instincts  of  their  kind, 
but  immediately  that  they  venture  further  from  themselves 
they  are  infected  for  good  or  evil  by  that  whereby  they 
are  surrounded.  There  is  no  getting  away  from  it,  and 
the  only  method  of  escaping  the  infection  of  trifles  is  the 
filling  of  the  heart  and  soul  so  full  that  there  is  no  room 
for  their  entrance.  If  a  man  is  compelled  to  be  often  in 
the  world,  that  conglomeration  of  men  and  manners  that 
has  won  for  itself  that  name,  his  only  chance  of  living  beyond 
it  and  so  influencing  that  world  is  to  live  in  an  atmosphere 
something  approaching  the  elevation  of  his  aims.  And  ever 
must  the  aim  be  loftier  than  is  the  possible  attainment. 

How  splendidly  this  grand  epigram  of  Disraeli  dovetails 
into  "  In  the  world,  not  of  it."  As  recorded  in  my 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

chapter  on  Beaconsfield,  the  great  man  had  been  dissuading 
me  from  entering  Parliament,  and  in  reply  I  had  said 
something  to  the  effect  that  the  joy  of  inspiration  must 
surely  be  equalled  by  the  tremor  of  exaltation  as  an  orator 
sways  his  audience.  Those  moments  are  not  easily  sacri- 
ficed. To  which  Disraeli  replied :  "  The  Moment  is 
nothing :  'tis  the  Morrow  that  matters." 

I  considered  this,  and  the  thought  within  me  rose  : 
Politically,  no  less  than  spiritually,  the  living  for  Time 
alone  is  a  miscalculation — Time's  sole  interest  to  man 
is  its  ending. 

Now,  tell  me,  how  we  can  be  true  to  the  instincts 
of  Progress  unless  we  be  free  of  the  trammellings  of  the 
Moment  ?  "  The  Moment  is  nothing :  'tis  the  Morrow 
that  matters." 

I  do  not  for  an  instant  suppose  that  Disraeli 
meant  this  in  a  spiritual  sense,  but  the  essence  of  a  great 
utterance  is  that  there  is  more  in  it  than  meets  the  eye ; 
it  is  like  the  pearl-seekers'  sea,  which  is  valued  less  for 
its  surface  sheen  than  for  the  infinities  which  await  the 
finding. 

I  asked  Dizzy  whether  it  did  not  almost  denote  greatness 
this  obsession  for  the  Morrow  rather  than  for  the  Moment  ? 
"  Ah,  before  we  go  further,  we  must  define  greatness : 
there  is  the  man  who  may  be  in  himself  great ;  and  there 
is  the  greatness  of  his  record.  Both  of  these  may  not 
exist  in  the  same  man  ;  it  is  often  that  the  greatness  of  the 
record  does  not  equal  the  greatness  of  the  man. 

The  stars  lit  me  homeward  from  that  memorable 
talk  in  Park  Lane ;  in  truth  not  brighter  they  than  the 
light  those  strong  words  lit. 

I  was  so  full  of  all  this  that  over  I  went  to  Browning 
and  told  him.  He  said  :  "  Fame  brings  with  it  to  the 

320 


Memorable  Sayings 

Elysian  Fields  only  the  soul ;  the  gods  take  no  heed  of  the 
body."  This  is,  I  think,  the  greatest  thing  Browning  ever 
said  to  me. 

That  night  I  asked  my  dear  father  down  to  my  smoking- 
room.  I  told  him  about  Beaconsfield  and  Browning. 
Alas !  that  I  can  recall  so  little  of  what  he  said  ;  alas,  that 
memory  is  but  mortal !  He  said  that  one  of  the  most 
interesting  pursuits  in  ethics  is  the  consideration  of  what 
will  perish  and  what  be  permanent  in  life.  God  allows 
no  waste ;  all  of  beauty  will  live.  Life's  rubbish  rots 
away,  its  diamonds  are  deathless. 

God  allows  no  waste  ;  all  of  beauty  will  live.  Surely 
it  was  the  seed  of  these  words  sown  within  me  by  the 
most  steadfast  and  ennobling  love  my  life  has  ever 
known,  that  after  over  thirty  years,  flowered  last  autumn 
into  the  sestet  of  the  following  sonnet : 

"  The  Beautiful  Moments  that  in  gardens  grow, 

Born  of  the  red  rose  and  the  ripe  sunbeam, 

Are  singing  to  me  from  the  Gates  of  Dream  : 
They're  not  of  them  that  bide  with  us  below, 
They  pass  in  music,  the  soul's  overflow  : 

Somewhere,  Dearhearts,  they  signal  me  and  seem 

Spirits  awaiting  us  across  the  stream 
With  robes  aglimmering  and  wings  aglow  : 

"  O  Beautiful  Moments,  we  shall  meet  ye  yet ! 
Nothing  that's  beautiful  in  all  life  long 
But  lives  to  greet  us  in  the  Realms  of  Song  : 

There  are  some  things  that  God  can  not  forget, 

He  bids  them  slumber  in  the  red  sunset 
Till  Dawn  awakes  them  where  the  sunbeams  throng." 

I  had  many  and  many  a  talk  with  the  great  Professor 
Owen,  who  showed  me  much  affection.  His  stupendous 
intellect  places  him  among  the  very  first  ranks  of  the 
world's  great  brains,  and  withal  he  had  a  simplicity  and 

321  21 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

singleness  of  heart  which  greatly  endeared  him  to  those 
privileged  to  possess  his  friendship.  The  Professor  was 
sitting  one  morning  on  the  beautiful  lawn  at  Thames 
Ditton  House,  Mr.  Hume-Dick's  riverside  residence.  It 
was  early  Spring  and  the  golden  shadow  of  a  ripe  laburnum 
was  around  him.  He  had  been  telling  me  of  the  different 
and  diverse  strata  of  the  earth.  I  said  :  "  Against  all 
opposition  and  unbelief  you  have  delved  deep  for  truth, 
deeper  indeed  than  the  well."  "  Truth  is  not  obliterated 
by  blindness,"  he  replied  ;  "  the  loftiest  truths  are  those 
that  lie  unseen."  One  day  I  questioned  Sir  Richard  about 
the  probable  term  of  the  world's  durability.  He  replied  : 
"  As  the  world's  past  is  so  much  longer  than  Scripture  leads 
us  to  suppose,  so  may  the  future  of  Time  be  relatively 
approximate  to  Eternity."  He  paused  a  few  minutes 
looking  down  at  the  flowers,  though  I  could  see  that  he  had 
scant  thought  of  them.  Then  suddenly  looking  up 
at  me  with  a  smile,  he  added  :  "  That  is  as  far  as  I  can 
go,  but  it  will  be  long  enough  for  you  and  me."  Dear 
man  !  he  now  looks  down  upon  those  depths  of  earth  whose 
secrecies  he  probed. 

"  We  don't  live  enough  under  the  skies.  Sleep  out 
in  the  open  with  the  stars  above  you,  and  you  realize 
something  of  this  wonderful  world  :  the  further  from  man, 
the  nearer  the  gods."  This  was  one  of  the  many  good 
things  said  to  me  by  a  close  friend  of  many  years,  one  of 
the  most  marvellous  men  I  ever  met.  Harry  Vane  Milbank 
was  a  man  Ouida  might  have  depicted,  but  could  scarcely 
have  exaggerated,  so  unlike  was  he  to  anyone  else.  For 
years  a  member  of  the  Blues,  a  grand  seigneur,  who  lived 
en  "prince^  he  was  at  home  in  every  capital  of  Europe,  and 
yet  would  disappear  for  months  into  uncivilized  solitudes. 
On  his  return  from  such  far-away  wanderings,  the  first 

322 


Memorable  Sayings 

I  would  hear  from  him  would  be  a  telegram  from  Paris 
bidding  me  to  dine  with  him  that  night  at  the  Savoy. 
Despite  a  manner  which  labelled  him  as  man  of  the  world, 
there  was  a  look  in  his  eyes  which  betrayed  the  solitudes 
of  which  he  drank.  Heir  of  Sir  Frederick  Milbank  of 
Barningham  Castle,  Yorks,  he  pre-deceased  his  venerable 
father.  I  don't  suppose  this  country  will  ever  again  pro- 
duce such  a  man. 

At  a  small  dinner-party  given  by  the  Duke  and  Duchess 
of  Somerset,  the  Duchess  said  something  which  I  have 
always  remembered.  She  has  devoted  much  of  her  life, 
and  splendidly  used  her  position,  for  the  furthering  of 
good  work.  The  party  was  small  enough  for  talk  to  be 
general,  and  we  were  discussing  social  problems,  and  indeed 
foretelling  many  of  the  changes  which  have  actually  taken 
place.  I  had  hazarded  the  remark  that  if  the  distressed 
portions  of  humanity  were  more  assured  of  sympathy, 
there  would  be  infinitely  less  of  class  friction.  Whereupon 
the  Duchess  said  :  "  Yes,  and  we  should  never  be  dis- 
couraged ;  it  is  the  beginning  that  counts  ;  those  who 
make  the  move  are  the  real  workers."  Nothing  good  is 
fruitless,  however  much  for  the  moment  it  may  seem  so. 
From  a  long  experience  of  London,  I  do  indeed  believe 
that  if  more  women  with  wealth  and  influence  gave  but 
a  portion  of  their  mind  and  money  to  the  masses,  which 
are  perhaps  without  either,  much  of  the  friction  that  faces 
us  would  be  obviated. 

Lord  Waleran,  who  embellished  the  office  of  Chief  Whip 
in  the  Balfour  Administration  with  a  courtly  courtesy 
which  might  well  be  an  example  nowadays,  said  a  neat 
thing  to  me  years  and  years  ago  at  San  Remo.  "  Political 
gratitude  is  engendered  less  by  remembrance  than  by 
anticipation."  This  truth  might  oe  paraphrased  if  one  said 

323  21* 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

that  to  his  Party  a  politician's  future  is  of  more  importance 
than  his  past. 

Lord  Waleran  is  essentially  a  man  of  few  words,  but 
they  mean  much  :  he  will  think  for  one  rapid  half  moment, 
but  when  he  speaks  there  is  decision  which  leaves  you  in 
no  doubt,  and  that  decision  is  usually  right.  Even  if  his 
view  be  adverse  to  yours,  it  is  chastened  with  a  kindliness 
which  does  much  to  appease. 

Sir  Alexander  Acland-Hood  (Lord  Waleran's  successor 
as  Chief  Whip)  was  often  as  equally  determined,  but  he 
rarely  gave  one  the  impression  that  his  decision  was 
originated  by  thought.  He  nevertheless  had  a  rough 
courtesy  of  his  own.  Both  these  men  exemplified  the 
manners  of  the  past.  There  is  indeed  a  wonderful  art 
in  the  way  a  man  treats  with  his  fellows.  The  drop  of  oil 
does  less  for  the  wheel  than  intelligent  courtesy  effects 
for  opposition,  and  with  the  decay  of  manners  there  must 
assuredly  in  the  future  be  an  increased  difficulty  in  obtain- 
ing the  ends  for  which  we  aim.  This  seems  an  illogical 
absurdity ;  every  day  adds  new  difficulties  to  life,  and 
particularly  to  politics ;  yet  every  day  I  see  this  new 
generation  wantonly  casting  away  as  useless  the  courtesies 
which  would  facilitate  its  work.  If  this,  our  Common- 
wealth, is  to  be  ruled  by  a  commoner  commonalty,  for 
God's  sake  let  it  be  done  with  common  sense  ! 

One  day  I  asked  Byron  whether  he  considered  his 
ancestor's  coronet  had  much  effect  in  obtaining  for  him 
his  immortality.  I  consider  that  my  friend's  instantaneous 
rejoinder  is  one  of  the  wittiest  epigrams  that  any  man  has 
given  me — "  A  coronet  is  possible  as  a  stepping  stone  : 
as  a  pedestal  it  lacks  stay.  'Tis  brain  that  fills  it."  Now 
of  a  certainty  when  the  idiots  who  knew  Byron  and 
failed  to  appreciate  him  question  me  as  regards  the 

324 


Memorable  Sayings 

high  place  I  give  him  amongst  the  men  I  have  met, 
I  ask  them  gently  and  without  malice,  could  they  have 
said  this  ? 

In  one  of  our  talks,  I  once  said  to  Byron  that  Life 
should  have  enough  work  to  enable  it  to  relish  its  play- 
time. It  is  Life's  labour  that  appetizes  Life's  pastimes. 
Whereon  he  said  :  "  I  doubt  if  the  real  doers  have  any 
pastime.  Their  aim  is  ever  with  them,  and  ultimately 
grows  part  of  themselves."  The  longer  I  live  the  more 
I  realize  the  truth  of  this.  That  which  matters,  and  by 
a  man's  determination  must  be,  grows  interblent  with 
himself  and  becomes  part  of  his  being.  Great  lives  are 
interwoven  with  their  aim. 

"  One  needs  the  goodwill  of  a  hundred  friends  to 
counterbalance  the  antagonism  of  one  enemy."  This 
fine  saying  was  given  to  me  by  the  late  Sir  Richard 
Burbage,  whose  marvellous  enterprise  and  energy  built 
up  the  great  business  of  Harrods,  now  managed  by  Sir 
Woodman  Burbage,  his  son.  I  was  congratulating  him 
one  day  on  the  courtesy  and  endeavour  to  please  which 
are  such  assets  to  the  Firm's  undertakings.  Regarding 
this  courtesy  Sir  Richard  declined  to  take  any  credit, 
declaring  that  courtesy  was  essential  to  good  business,  as 
one  dissatisfied  purchaser  did  more  harm  than  could  be 
rectified  by  scores  of  satisfied  people.  "  One  needs  the 
goodwill  of  a  hundred  friends  to  counter-balance  the 
antagonism  of  one  enemy."  Sir  Richard's  son,  a  chip 
of  the  old  block,  holds  his  father's  work  in  such  veneration 
that  it  is  unnecessary  to  apply  to  him  General  Morris's 
famous  stanza  written  in  1630  : 

"  Woodman,  spare  that  tree  ! 

Touch  not  a  single  bough  ! 
In  youth  it  sheltered  me, 
And  I'll  protect  it  now." 

325 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

I  owe  a  great  deal  to  one  of  our  ablest  men,  who,  I  am 
thankful  to  say,  is  alive  and  well  amongst  us  notwithstand- 
ing his  many  laborious  years  elucidating  litigation.     Lord 
Atkinson  of   Glenwilliam  is  not  only  a  sound  lawyer  and 
one  whose   finding  in  cases  of   Appeal  is  usually  safe  and 
standing,   but   a   robust   sportsman.     I   have  known   him 
in  many  attitudes,  have  fished  with  him  for  trout,  bridged 
with  him  for  gain,   and  walked  with  him  for  appetite. 
During  the  shuffling  of  the  cards  I  rarely  knew  him  without 
a  good  terse  example  of  Irish  wit,  and  during  the  long 
walks  when  I  have  been  his  only  companion  I  have  learnt 
many  a  useful  thing.     One  day  he  surpassed  himself  and 
gave  me  a  truth  which  has  ever  since  been  with  me  as  a 
daily  influencing  factor.     On  the  previous   day  we  had 
talked  sport  as  we  walked,  and  he  told  me  of  an  excellent 
gamekeeper  he  had.     The  next  afternoon  he  said  :    "  You 
remember  what   I   told  you  yesterday  about   my  game- 
keeper ;    well,  I've  had  a  letter  from  him  this  morning 
which  is  not  so  pleasant :    it  appears  that  he  has  been 
summoned  by  the  police  :    he  has  written  me  sheets  of 
his  account  of  the  matter."     I  naturally  asked  his  Lordship 
what  he  thought  concerning  it ;    whereupon   he   stopped 
short,  stuck  his  stick  violently  into  the  ground,  and  said  : 
"  Now  do  you  think  that  I  should  be  fit  for  the  position 
I  occupy  if  I  allowed  my  mind  to  form   opinions  until  I 
had  heard  both  sides  ?     I  have  yet  to  learn  what  the  police 
have  to  say  on  the  matter." 

That  walk  took  place  a  few  years  before  the  war,  and 
I  don't  think  I  can  recall  an  instance  during  the  inter- 
vening years  where  that  simple,  sensible  dictum  has  not 
helped  me  to  an  unbiassed  mind.  Ye  gods  !  how  rare 
everywhere  is  that  unbiassed  mind !  I  have  known  even 
lawyers  who  believed  themselves  to  be  luminaries  throw 

326 


Memorable  Sayings 

every  shred  of  conscience,  common  sense  and  common 
justice  to  the  winds,  both  politically  and  socially,  in  forming 
opinions  on  partial  evidence.  If  Lord  Atkinson's  saying 
could  but  be  widely  digested,  what  a  different  world  would 
be  ours,  and  we  should  treat  our  fellows  fairly  and  squarely 
in  our  estimation  of  men  and  motives. 

I  have  lived  into  days  wherein  the  only  earthly  cer- 
tainty left  is  the  onward  march  of  Time.  Old  things 
have  passed,  and  that  which  is  new  shall  likewise  perish, 
and  as  life  increases  in  stress,  and  as  nothing  established 
seems  stable,  the  thinker  looks  around  for  all  which  shall 
lead  us  into  that  progress  which  alone  shall  give  us  peace. 
As  the  soul  needs  to  be  satisfied  ere  yet  she  feels  secure, 
so  is  security  needful  for  these  temporal  times  before  we 
can  think  to  live  in  safety.  The  fine  words  learnt  by  me 
from  Mrs.  Ronalds  come  home  as  doves  of  peace  :  "  The 
dead  can  live  without  the  living  :  the  living  cannot  live 
without  the  dead."  The  past  is  strewn  with  nobleness ; 
great  doings  and  sounds  of  mighty  deeds  re-echo  to  us 
from  the  blind,  dead  ages ;  they  have  outlived  the  past — 
shall  they  not  endure  to  lead  us  still  ?  There  is  more  future 
for  the  land  in  following  the  Great  which  are  dead  than 
emulating  the  Little  that  are  living.  What  boots  us  to 
strain  towards  the  blossoms  of  the  Spring  ere  yet  we  have 
gathered  of  the  harvests  of  the  Autumn  ? 

This  record  of  notable  sayings  would  be  incomplete 
without  including  that  significant  remark  of  Gladstone's, 
howbeit  it  is  already  mentioned  in  the  chapter  given  up 
to  recollections  of  that  great  statesman.  That  utterance 
has  been  so  helpful  to  me  that  it  may  well  be  to  others, 
and  there  is  thus  advantage  in  repeating  it.  You  will 
remember  that  I  had  asked  Gladstone  whether  it  was  true 
as  stated  that  he  did  not  know  the  number  of  his  own 

327 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

door.  "  And  what  if  it  is  so  ?  "  he  decisively  answered, 
"  I  never  burden  my  mind  with  anything  that  anyone  else 
can  tell  me.  I  burden  my  mind  with  what  they  can't 
tell."  The  more  one  thinks  of  this,  the  more  there  seems 
in  it ;  and  only  think  how  much  more  we  should  know 
if  we  but  gave  asylum  in  our  minds  to  the  many  splendid 
things  we  hear  which  otherwise  perhaps  would  be  irre- 
parably lost  ? 

If  but  I  could  begin  life  again  and  retread  those 
pleasant  paths  bright  with  the  garlands  and  noondays 
of  the  past,  how  sternly  should  I  shut  my  memory's  doors 
to  all  save  the  beautiful  and  the  irreplaceable,  so  that 
when  Winter  comes  and  wanderings  forth  no  longer  have 
overhead  the  skylark's  song  by  day,  the  pleading  stars 
by  night,  my  Heaven  would  be  within  illumined  by  the 
loveliness  gathered  along  life's  way. 


328 


INDEX 


AcLAND-HooD,    Sir    Alexander,  Bart., 

M.P.  (Lord  St.  Audries),  324 
Adderley,  Canon  the  Honble.  Reginald, 

M.A.,   51 

Ailesbury,  Maria,  Marchioness  of,  138 
Albani,  Mme.,  60 
Albany,    H.R.H.    Leopold,    Duke    of, 

K.G.,  44,  86 

Albany,  H.R.H.  Duchess  of,  267 
Albert,  H.R.H.  Prince  (Prince  Consort), 

56,  58,  68-71,  102 
Alderson,  Baron,  105 
Allhusen,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Christian  (of 

Stoke  Court,  Slough),  148-51 
Allhusen,  Henry  E.,  151 
Anderson,  Mary    (Mme.  de  Navarro), 

34-5 

Argyll,  double  Dukedom  of,  95 
Argyll,  George  William,  6th  Duke  of,  134 
Arthur,  Sir  George,  Bart.,  51 
Ashbourne,  Lady,  235 
Asquith,  Mrs.  140 
Astley,  Sir  John,  158-9 
Atkinson,  Glenwilliam,  Lord  of,    254, 

326-7 

Austen,  Jane  (Novelist),  17 
Austin,  Alfred  (Late  Poet  Laureate),  17 
Avonmore,  Viscount,  268 

BALFOUR,  Rt.  Honble.  Sir  Arthur,  K.G., 

M.P.,  242 

Baltimore,  Barony  of,  156 
Bangor,  Henry,  5th  Viscount,  R.P.,  254 
Barrett-Lennard,  Sir  Thomas,  Bart.,  281 


Barrington,  Sir  Eric,  K.C.B.,  116 

Bartolucci,  Signer  Vincenzo,  84-5 

Bateman,  Sir  Hugh,  Bart.,  95 

Bateman-Scott,  Sir  Francis,  Bart.,  95 

Bateman-Scott,  Lady  (of  Great  Barr 
Hall,  Staffs),  94 

Beaconsfield,  Earl  of,  K.G.,  54,  97-101, 
103,  106-11,  119,  121,  132,  139-40, 
181,  209,  225,  302,  319,  321 

Beaconsfield,  Viscountess,   138 

Beatrice,  H.R.H.,  Princess,  76 

Beauchamp,  Countess,  258 

Beauman,  Mr.  (of  Forenaughts),  154-5 

Bebel,  August,  117,  120 

Benson,  Dr.,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury, 
201-2 

Beresford,  Admiral,  Lord  Charles  (Lord 
Beresford),  80 

Beresford,  Lord  Marcus,  254-6 

Bernini,  Giovanni,  19 

Billington  (hangman),  81 

Bismarck,  Prince  von,  116,  234 

Blackburne,  Foster  Grey,  Archdeacon 
of  Manchester,  193-5 

Blackburne,  Canon  Henry,  204 

Blackwood,  Sir  Arthur  Stephenson, 
K.C.B.,  40-1 

Blane,  General  Sir  Seymour,  Bart., 
C.B.,  80 

Boulanger,  General,  222-3 

Bourne,  His  Eminence  Cardinal,  Arch- 
bishop of  Westminster,  5,  312-5 

Bradlaugh,  Charles,  M.P.,  127-8 

Bradley,  Dr.,  Dean  of  Westminster,  240 


329 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 


Braybrooke,    Charles    Cornwallis,    $th     Canterbury,  Archbishop  of  (Tait),  201 


Lord,  248 

Braybrooke,  Latimer,  6th  Lord,  196 
Bright,  Canon,  21 
Brooke,  Lord  (now  Earl  of  Warwick), 

'56,  293 

Brougham,  Henry,  Lord,  239 
Broughton,  Rhoda,  206 
Browning,  Robert,  19,97,  136-7,  219-21, 

320-1 

Bryant,  Mr.,  151 
Buccleuch,  Duke  of,  50,  95 
Buggin,  Sir  George,  79 
Buonaparte,  Prince  Jerome  (ex-King  of 

Westphalia),  69 

Burbage,  Sir  Richard,  ist  Bart.,  325 
Burbage,  Sir  Woodman,  2nd  Bart.,  325 
Burdett-Coutts,  Baroness,  43 
Burghersh,  Lord,  62 
Burgoyne,  Sir  John,  Bart.,  184-7 
Burleigh,  Lord,  103 
Burnham,  Edward,  ist  Lord,  245 
Burns,  Robert,  141 
Burnside,  Mary,  297 
Burroughs,  Canon,  310 
Bute,  late  Marquess  of,  7 
Bute,  Dow.  Marchioness  of,  47 
Byron,     George     Gordon     Noel,     6th 

Baron  (the  Poet),  150,  230,  288,  308 
Byron,  Honble.  Frederick,  280 
Byron,    Honble.    and    Rev.    Augustus, 

297-8 

Byron,  Honble.  and  Rev.  William,  297 
Byron,  George  Anson,  280,  297 
Byron,  Lucy,  Lady  (widow  of  8th  peer), 

2801 
Byron,  George  Frederick  William,  gth 

Lord,  106,  209,  224,  254,  276-303,  324 


CADOGAN,  Earl,  K.G.,  116,  130 
Calcraft,  Lady  Caroline,  81 
Canterbury,  Archbishop   of  (Manners- 
Sutton),  256 


Canterbury,    Archbishop    of    (Benson), 

201-2 

Capell,  Monsignor,  2-3,  7-9,  n,  13,  16 
Carnock,  Lord,  P.C.,  G.C.B.,  234-5 
Carroll,   Lewis   (Charles   L.    Dodgson), 

108-9,  19$>  "8,  253-4 
Cathcart,  Sir  George,  64 
Cecil,  Lord  Robert,  M.P.  (see  Salisbury), 

105 
Chamberlain,  Rt.  Honble.  Joseph,  M.P. 

209,  212 

Chandos-Pole,  Lady  Anna,  7 
Chatham,  Earl  of,  107 
Chester,  Dean  of  (Darby),  204 
Christ  Church,  Dean  of  (Liddell),  196-8 
Clinton,       Lord       Edward       Pelham, 

G.C.V.O.,  25,  75,  88,  92-4 
Clinton,  Lady  Edward  Pelham,  96 
Clonmell,  Earl  of  (ist  peer),  205 
Coghill,  Sir  Joscelyn,  Bart.,  254 
Colnaghi,  Charles,  25-6 
Combermere,  Dow.  Viscountess,  281-3 
Congleton,  John  Vesey  (2nd  peer),  205, 

240-1 

Corry,  Montagu,  Lord  Rowton,  102 
Cradock-Hartopp,  Colonel,  12-3 
Cradock-Hartopp,     Sir     W.     E.     (3rd 

Baronet),  96 

Cranborne,  Viscount,   105 
Cranbrook,  Earl  of  (ist  peer),  267 
Crawford,  Marion,  19 
Crewe,  Lord  (last  Lord  of  extinct  line), 

203-4 

Crewe,  Marquess  of,  K.G.,  99,  242 
Cromwell,  Oliver  (Lord  Protector),  96 
Cunyngham,   late   Marquess  of,  167-8, 

170-1 
Curzon     of    Kedleston,    Marquess    of, 

K.G.,  98,  134,  241-2 

DALHOUSIE,  Marquess  of,  82 
Darby,  Dr.,  Dean  of  Chester,  204 
Darby,  John,  205 


330 


Index 


d'Arcos,  Mme.,  269 

Darwin,   Charles,   137 

de  Burgh,  Archdeacon,  154-5 

de  Lesseps,  M.,  186 

Bering,  Sir  Henry,  Bart.,  221-2 

de  Robeck,  Charles,  80 

de  Several,  Marquess,  230 

de  Windt,  Harry,  148 

Devonshire,  Louise,  Duchess  of,  39 

Dickens,  Charles,  283 

Dietrichstein,  Prince  von,  23 1 

Drumlanrig,  Viscount,  49-50 

Drummond,  Honble.  Edith,  77 

Dryden,  John,  225 

Dublin,  Archbishop  of  (Whateley),  202 

Dublin,     Archbishop     of     (Chevenix- 

Trench),  259 
Dunedin,  Lord,  254-5 
Dungarvan,    Viscount    (now    Earl    of 

Cork),  153 
Dynevor,  Lord,  41 

EATON,  H.  FitzRoy,  271 

Eckardstein,  Baron  von,  114-5,  119-2°} 

122-3,   130 

Eckstein,  Mrs.  77 

Eden,  Sir  Robert,  Bart,  (of  Maryland), 

156 

Eden,  Sir  Frederick  Morton,  Bart.,  156-7 
Eden,  Sir  William,  Bart.,  155-6 
Eden,  Colonel  and  Mrs.Henry  Forbes,  25 
Edinburgh,  H.R.H.  Duke  of  (Duke  of 

Coburg),  80,  114 

Edward,  Prince  of  Saxe  Weimar,  67 
Edward  VII.  (late  King  of  England), 

77,  88,  91,  114,  228 
Egerton,  Lady  (of  Tatton),  264 
Elizabeth,  Queen  Regnant  of  England, 

103 
Elliott,  Admiral  of  the  Fleet  Sir  Charles 

and  Lady  Harriet,  269,  273 
Elphin,  Dean  of  (Warburton),  152 
Ely,  Jane,  Marchioness  of,  75,  85-6,  270 
Ely,  Emily,  Marchioness  of,  272 


Erroll,  Amelia,  Countess  of,  75-6 
Eugenie,  Empress  of  the  French,  33-4, 

185-6,  269 

Euston,  Earl  of,  270-1 
Evans,  Dr.,  185,  187 
Evans,  Sir  Samuel,  294 
Eyre,  Lady,  n 

FITZGERALD,  Lord  Walter,  30 

FitzRoy,  Lord  Frederick,  280 

Fleetwood,   General,   96 

Fordyce,   General,   80 

Forester,  Lord  Cecil,  248-50 

Fox,  Rt.  Honble.  Charles  James,  173, 

256-7 

Fox,  Lady  Augusta,  69-70 
Fox-Pitt,  Mr.  St.  George,  126 
Frederica,  Princess,  of  Hanover,  267 
Fuller-Acland-Hood,  Sir  Alexander  (see 

Acland-Hood),  95 

GAGE,  Henry,  Viscount,  293-4 
Galloway,  Randolph,  Earl  of,  225 
Galway,  Dow.  Viscountess,  101 
George  V.  (His  Majesty  the  King),  91 
Germaine,  R.  A.,  D.C.L.,  254 
Germany,    William    II.,    Emperor    of, 

115-7,  120,  122-3 

Gibbons,  His  Eminence  Cardinal,  313 
Gladstone,  Rt.  Honble.  William  Ewart, 

54,  76,  97-ioQ,   103,   109,   112,   121, 

125-44,  181,  220,  327-8 
Gladstone,  Mrs.,  137-9 
Gladstone,  Herbert,  Viscount,  134,  138 
Gladstone,  Henry,  134,  138 
Goldsmith,  Oliver,  107,  266 
Gordon,  Lady  Charlotte,  41 
Gore,  Colonel  Fred,  78-80 
Grafton,  7th  Duke  of,  270 
Graham-Toler,  Colonel  James,  182,  190 
Graham-Toler,  Captain  Leopold,   190 
Granville,  late  Earl,  268 
Grey  of  Falloden,  Viscount,  K.G.,  123 
Grey,  Sir  William,  156 


331 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 


Crossmith,  George,  254 
Grosvenor,  Countess,  258 
Guilford,  late  Earl  of,  159-60,  191 
Guilford,  Georgina,  Countess  of,  248 

HAMILTON,  Dukedom  of,  95 
Hampton,  Lady  Laura,  267 
Harbord,  Lady  Eleanor,  271 
Harrington,  late  Earl  of,  147 
Harris,  Lord  and  Lady,  250 
Harris,  Sir  Augustus,  219,  221 
Hatzfeldt,  Count  von,   114,   116,  231, 

234-5 

Havelock,  Lady,  238,  242-6 
Havelock-Allan,  Sir  Henry,  Bart.,  M.P., 

243,246 
Hay,  Lord  William,   loth  Marquess  of 

Tweeddale,  83-4 
Hay,  Lady  Margaret,  81 
Herbert,  Sir  Arthur,  G.C.M.G.,  226 
Heron-Maxwell,  Sir  John,  Bart.,  259 
Hobart-Hampden,  Mrs.  40 
Holland,  Lady,  44,  46 
Hollmann,  60 

Houghton,  Lord,  99-101,  203,  242 
Houlton,  Sir  Victor,  K.C.B.,  254 
Howard,  His  Eminence  Cardinal,  3,  5, 

12-3,  27-8 

Hughes-Hallett,  Colonel,  M.P.,  223,  225 
Hume-Dick,  of  Humewood  Castle,  Rt. 

Honble.  FitzWilliam,  14,  153,  321 
Humphrey,  Sir  William  and  Lady,  105-6 
Hunt,  Rt.  Honble.  Ward,  M.P.,  135 
Hunt,  George,  164 
Hunt,  Admiral  Tom,  164 
Hunter,  Honble.  Mrs.,  281 

ILCHESTER,  Countess  of,  46 

Inge,  Dr.,  Dean  of  St.  Paul's,  310 

Inglefield,    late   Admiral    Sir    Edward, 

K.C.B.,  F.R.S.,  259-60 
Inverness,  Cecilia,  Duchess  of,  79 
Irving,  Sir  Henry,  38,  43,  172,  177-82 


JERSEY,  Countess  of,  46 
Johnson,  Dr.  Samuel,  266 
Jowett,  Dr.,  265 


KEATS,  John,  12,  27,  99,  107,  288 
Kendal,  Duchess  of,  248 
Kent,  H.R.H.  Duchess  of,  54 
Kilmaine,  Lord  and  Lady,  268 
King,  Dr.,  Bishop  of  Lincoln,  228 
Kingsley,  Charles,   176 
Kinnaird,  Arthur,  Lord,  228-30 
Kinnaird,  Lord,  K.T.,  245 
Kinnaird,  Honble.  Douglas,  230 
Kintore,  Countess  of,  40 
Kitchener  of  Khartoum,  Horatio,  P.M., 

Earl,  K.G.,  181,  208-17 
Knaresborough,  Lord,  90 


LAMBART,  Honble.   Bertha,  76 

Lamington,  Lord,  G.C.M.G.,   51,   100 

Langrishe,  Sir  Hercules,  Bart.,   148 

Lawrence,  Lord  (ist  peer),  237-42 

Lawrie,  Andrew,  293 

Learmouth,  Mrs.,  138 

le  Breton,  Mme.  185,  187 

Legh,  of  Adlington  Hall,  Cheshire,  the 

late  Charles,  228 

Leinster,  Hermione,  Duchess  of,  30 
Lennox,  Colonel,  41 
Leo  XIII.,  Pope,  2-6 
Leopold,  King  of  the  Belgians,  56 
le    Strange,    of    Hunstanton,    Captain 

Roland,  289-90 
Li,  Lord,  236 

Lichnowsky,  Prince  von,  123,  235 
Liddell,    Dr.,    late    Dean    of    Christ 

Church,  Oxford,   196-8 
Liddell,  Mrs.,  51,  197 
Liddon,  Canon,  245 
Lincoln,  Bishop  of  (King),  228 
Liszt,  Abbe",  60 
Liszt,  Friedrich,  117 


332 


Index 


Lockwood,  Lady  Julia,  79 

Loftus,  Lady  Anna,  264 

Loftus,  Lady  Catherine,  265 

London,    Bishop    of    (Winnington-In- 
gram),  198-201 

Londonderry,  late  Marquess  and  Mar- 
chioness of,  31-2 

Long   of  Hurst  Hall,  Suffolk,  the  late 
Mrs.,  191 

Long  of  Wraxall,  Viscount,  153 

Lowther,  Sir  Cecil,  148 

Lushington,     Frederic     and     Lady 
Margaret,  81 

Lyell,  Sir  Charles,  Bart.,  137 


MACGREGOR,     the    late    General    Sir 

Charles,  K.C.B.,  267 
MacGregor,  Lady,  267 
Mackintosh  of  Mackintosh,  The,  101 
McClure,    Dr.,    Dean   of   Manchester, 

195-6 

Magniac,  Lady  Eleanor,  272 
Malmesbury,  Susan,  Countess  of,  290 
Manchester,    Elizabeth,     Duchess    of, 

41-2 

Manchester,  Sydney,  Duchess  of,  40 
Manchester,  Louise,  Duchess  of,  40,  42 
Manchester,  Consuela,  Duchess  of,  30, 

40 
Manchester,    Bishop    of  (Moorhouse), 

193-6 

Manchester,  Dean  of  (McClure),  195-6 
Manchester,  Archdeacon  of  (Black- 

burne),  193-5 
Mandeville,  Viscount,  41 
Mandeville,  Honble.  Mrs.,  205 
Manners-Sutton,    Dr.,    Archbishop    of 

Canterbury,  256 
Manning,   His  Eminence   Cardinal,   2, 

8,  12 

Marie  Antoinette,  Queen  of  France,  184 
Marlborough,  Lily,  Duchess  of,  256,  284 
Marlborough,  Consuela,  Duchess  of,  32 


Medici,  Marchesa,  18 
Mensdorff,  Count  von,  230-1 
Metternich,  Count  von,  186 
Michelham,  Herbert,  Lord,  K.C.V.O., 

47 

Midletqn,  Earl,  241-2 
Milbank,  Sir  Frederick,  Bart.,  323 
Milbank,  Harry  Vane,  322 
Milles-Lade,  Honble.  Henry  Augustus, 

1 88 

Milton,  John,  225 
Minto  Elliott,  Mrs.  25 
Moltke,  General,  Count  von,  122 
Monier-Williams,  Sir  Monier,  265 
Monson,  Debonnaire,  8th  Lord,  25 
Moore,  Mrs.  Blomefield,  219-21 
Moorhouse,  Dr.,  Bishop  of  Manchester 

193-6 

Morris,  General,  325 
Morris,  Lord,  61,  254 
Morris,  Sir  Lewis,  47-8 
Mount  Charles,  Earl  of,  168-70 

NAPIER  AND  ETTRICK,  late  Lord,  79-80 

Nelson,  late  Earl,  109,  288 

Nelson,  Lord,  290 

Nevin,  Dr.,  22 

Newton,  Lord,  19-20,  51,  167,  228 

Nilsson  Christine,  Countess  de  Miranda, 

60 

Norbury,  Earl  of,  190 
North,  Lady,  25 
North,  Lady  Flora,  160-1 
Northumberland,  Duchess  of,  46 
Norton,  Lord,  127-8 

O'CoNNELL,  Daniel,  M.P.,  244 

Oliphant,  Lawrence,  229 

Osborne,  Godolphin,  Lord  d'Arcy,  92 

Osborne,  Lady,  190 

Osborne,  Sir  Charles  Stanley,  Bart.,  190 

Osborne,  Sir  Henry,  190 

Ouida  (Louise  de  la  Ram6e),  3,  322 


333 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 


Owen,  Professor  Sir  Richard,  97,  181, 

3*1 

Oxford,  Bishop  of  (Stubbs),   198,  262, 
204,  206-7 

PALMERSTON,  Viscountess,  44 
Parnell,  Charles  Stewart,  M.P.,  205 
Patti,  Adelina,  60,  219 
Pattison,  Mark,  97,  264-6 
Patton-Bethune,  General,  C.B.,  93,  268, 

273 

Patton-Bethune,  Major  Herbert,  93, 207 
Pecci,  Count,  4 
Peel,  Sir  Robert,  54,  261 
Peel,  Lady  Julia,  82 
Peel,  Frederick,  293 
Percival,  Captain,  80 
Pio  Nono  (Pope),  5 
Pless,  Princess  von,  33 
Ponsonby,  General  Sir  Henry,   G.C.B., 

72,  88-90 
Ponsonby,   Colonel   Sir   Frederick,   86, 

89-90,  184,  216 
Ponsonby- Fane,    Sir   Spencer,   K.C.B., 

222 


QUEENSBERRY,  John  Sholto,  8th  Mar- 
quess of,  42,  48-9 

Queensberry,  Percy  Sholto,  gth  Mar- 
quess of,  50 


RAGLAN,  General  Lord,  62,  64,  66 

Ram,  Prebendary,  267 

Ramsay,  of  Whitehill,  Wardlaw,  82 

Ranelagh,  Viscount,  200 

Ranfurly,  Earl  of,  G.C.M.G.,  249 

Reid,  Sir  George,  K.C.M.G.,  227,  255 

Reilly,  Colonel  "  Tim,"  80 

Richmond,  6th  Duke  of,  42 

Rip  on,  Marquess  of,  164 

Roberts,  F.  M.  Earl,  K.G.,  80,  267 

Ronalds,  Mrs.,  40,  45,  327 


Rosebery,  Earl  of,  K.G.,  49,  116 

Rosmead,  Lord,  90 

Ross,  Lady,  48 

Roumania,  Charles,  King  of,  113 

Roumania,  King  of,  114 

Rutland,  Duke  of,  256 

Rutland,  Duchess  of,  137 

SACKVILLE,  Lord  and  Lady,  219-21 
St.     Audries,     Alexander,     Lord     (ist 

peer),  95 

St.  Helier,  Lord,  61 
Salisbury,  Marquess  of,  K.G.,  80,  97-8, 

103-4,  i 12-6,  119-20,  123,  159,  225, 

241 
Salisbury,    Marchioness    of,    46,     98, 

104-5,  *39 

San  Lucca,  Due  de,  269 
Saunders,    Sir    Frederick,    K.C.M.G., 

165,  167 

Sayer,  General  Sir  James  and  Lady,  268 
Scarlett,  Honble.  Henrietta,  82 
Scott,  Sir  Joseph,  95 
Scott,  Sir  Edward  Dolman,  95 
Scott,  Lord  Walter,  96 
Scott,  Honble.  Joseph  &  Mrs.  Maxwell, 

269 

Selborne,  Earl  of,  134 
Seymour,  Lt.-Colonel  Charles,  64 
Seymour,    General   Sir   Francis,    Bart., 

K.C.B.,  53-74,  88 
Seymour,  Lady,  59-60,  71-2,  223 
Shaftesbury,  Earl  of,  K.G.,   181,  241, 

257 

Shaftesbury,  Countess  of,  258 
Shairp,  Professor,  108-9 
Shakespeare,  288,  299,  308 
Shaw-Stewart,  Rev.  Robert,   152 
Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe,  35-6,  107,  288 
Shelley-Rolls,  Sir  John  and  The  Honble. 

Lady,  77 

Sheridan,  Richard  Brinsley,  173 
Sholto,  Douglas,  Lord  Percy,  50 
Sibthorp,  Mrs.  Waldo,  272 


334 


Index 


Sitwell,  Lady,  17 

Somerset,  Duchess  of,  323 

Spencer-Cooper,  Mrs.,  40 

Spurgeon,  Charles  Haddon,  243-5 

Stamfordham,  Lord,  G.C.V.O.,  90 

Stanhope,  late  Honble.  FitzRoy,  148 

Stanley  of  Alderley,  Lord,  126 

Stannard,  Mrs.  (John  Strange  Winter), 
178 

Steer,  Janet,  177 

Sterling,  Antoinette,  60 

Stockmar,  Baron,  56,  58,  70-1 

Story,  Judge,  19 

Story,  W.  W.,  13,  15-8,  20,  22-3,  225 

Story,  Waldo,  15,  18-20 

Story,  Julian,  18 

Strathmore,  Earl  and  Countess  of, 
268-9,  273'5 

Stuart-Menteth,  Lady,  269 

Stubbs,  Dr.,  Bishop  of  Chester,  trans- 
ferred to  Oxford,  198,  202,  204,  206-7 

Sussex,  H.R.H.  Duke  of,  K.G.,  79-80, 

9i 
Swinburne,     Charles    Algernon,    47-8, 

97,  220,  288 
Sydenham  of  Combe,  Lord,  G.C.M.G., 

118-9,   I24,  227 

TAIT,  Archibald  Campbell,  Archbishop 

of  Canterbury,  201 
Taylor,  Lady  Jane,  82 
Taylor,  Simon  Watson,  82 
Temple,   Sir   Richard,    Bart.,    G.C.B., 

227,  246-9 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord,  181-2,  225,  288 
Tennyson,  Lord,  181 
Terry,  Ellen,  178 

Toler,  Sir  John,  ist  Earl  of  Norbury,  205 
Tollemache,  Honble.  Lionel,  262-4 
Tollemache,  Honble.  Mrs.,  262-3 
Toole,  John  Lawrence,  172,  179-80,  254 
Tottenham,  Colonel  Loftus,  258-9 
Tree,    Sir   Herbert,   38,    172-3,    175-7, 

254 


Trench,  Chevenix,  Archbishop  of  Dub- 
lin, 259] 

Tristram,  Dr.,  195-6 
Tweeddale,  Julia,  Marchioness  of,  83 
Tweeddale,  Candida,  Marchioness  of,  84 
Tynte,  Colonel  Fortescue,  154 

VANDELEUR,  Colonel  Seymour,  D.S.O., 

148 

Vaughan,  His  Eminence  Cardinal  of,  269 
Vavasour,  Sir  William,  Bart.,  4 
Victoria,  Queen  Regnant,  38,  53-6,  73-4, 

76,  88,  90-1,  102,  no,  138,  242,  268-9 

WADDINGTON,  His  Excellency  M.,  224 

Wakefield,  Bishop  of  (Walsham-How), 
198,  201 

Waldegrave,  Frances,  Countess,  44,  47 

Waleran,  Lord,  323-4 

Wales,  H.R.H.  Prince  of,  K.G.,  91 

Waller,  Lady  Marian,  272 

Waller,  Lewis,  177 

Walsh,  Sir  Allan  and  Lady,  268 

Walsham-How,  Dr.,  Bishop  of  Wake- 
field,  198,  201 

Warburton,  Dr.,  Dean  of  Elphin,  152 

Watson,  John,   146-7 

Wellesley,  Lady  Charles,  290 

Wellington,  Elizabeth,  Duchess  of,  75,  82 

Wellington,  F.M.  Arthur,  Duke  of, 
K.G.,  109,  212,  288 

Wellington,  late  Duke  of,  290-1 

Westminster,  Dean  of  (Bradley),  240 

Westminster,  Archbishop  of  (Bourne), 
5>  312-5 

Westminster,  Archbishop  of  (Manning), 
2,  8,  12 

Westminster,  Archbishop  of  (Vaughan), 
269 

Wettnal,  His  Excellency  Baron,  235 

Wescomb,  Rev.  William,  280 

Whateley,  Dr.,  Archbishop  of  Dublin,. 

202 


335 


Memoirs  of  the  Memorable 

White,  Blanco,  108  Wordsworth,  Dorothy,  137 

Wicklow,   late   Earl   and   Countess  of,  Wyndham,  Sir  Charles,  172,   176 

258-9 
Winnington-Ingram,    Dr.,    Bishop    of 

London,  198-201  ZETLAND,  Marquess  and  Marchioness  of, 
Wiseman,  His  Eminence  Cardinal,  8  32 

Wolff,  Auguste,  60  Zotoff,  General,  113 

Wordsworth,  William,  107,  137  Zouche,  late  Lord,  293,  295 


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